


A Mansion House Murder

by BroadwayBaggins, Fericita, MercuryGray, middlemarch, sagiow, tortoiseshells



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, End of Reconstruction, F/M, Family, Gen, Humor, Letters, Literary References & Allusions, Murder, Murder Mystery, References to Christie, References to Clue | Cluedo, References to the Klan, Romance, Southern Gothic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:08:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 54,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23384296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BroadwayBaggins/pseuds/BroadwayBaggins, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fericita/pseuds/Fericita, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercuryGray/pseuds/MercuryGray, https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagiow/pseuds/sagiow, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tortoiseshells/pseuds/tortoiseshells
Summary: Ten years after the war, Mansion House has finally returned to being a hotel, and the doctors and nurses that once called the Hospital home have all mysteriously been invited back. But this ersatz reunion takes a strange turn when Silas Bullen, the Quartermaster we all love to hate, dies suddenly and unexpectedly. The characters are trying to catch up on what’s happened since they last saw each other ten years previously, and figure out who killed the odious former officer.Round-Robin writing prompt.
Relationships: Alice Green/Percival Squivers, Eliza Foster/Byron Hale, Emma Green/Frank Stringfellow, George/Belinda Gibson, Jedediah "Jed" Foster/Mary Phinney, Samuel Diggs/Charlotte Jenkins
Comments: 366
Kudos: 22





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Kicking off our Mercy Street round-robin writing project, and in the interest of providing some room for development and explore some new ground, we're going explore post-war Mansion House - a building that has returned to being a hotel, to which all of our Mercy Street friends have been invited back for the weekend when Silas Bullen, the Quartermaster we all love to hate (and one more guest at this odd reunion weekend) dies suddenly and unexpectedly. The characters are trying to catch up on what’s happened since they last saw each other ten years previously, and figure out who killed the odious former officer. Any character we met during the two seasons is fair game for inclusion! 
> 
> Several Mercy Street fandom regulars have all expressed an interest in participating - and if anyone else wants in, speak up in the comments below. I’ve started, and will tag someone else on tumblr to write the next bit. Any style, perspective, or voice is encouraged - and it’s southern Gothic, so…an unhappy ten years is probably for the best. (I’m going to start with a less-than-satisfactory ending myself for one of our favorites, in the interest of getting another character back in the mix, and we’ll see where it goes.)
> 
> So - 1875. Grant is president. Country’s in the middle of a recession. Reconstruction’s still going on, and we’re back in Alexandria.

It frightened her, a little, coming back to Mansion House. For the whole stagecoach ride she’d worried over her gloves, her wedding ring, the trim on her dress, the ribbons of her bonnet. After ten years away, what would it look like? Certainly not the way she’d left it in 1865 - stained walls, scraped floors…memories.

Emma could still remember standing in the front hall the day they’d closed the hospital - the patients gone, the beds removed, walls dingy where men had rested heads or medicines had been spilled, stairs worn with use. For five years this had been her home, her family, even - and she was leaving it. She’d looked around, wondering if it was wise to try and commit it to memory, and then she’d taken her trunk out into the street, unable to look back. 

And she’d not been back, at all, since the war had ended. Her father had taken possession again and tried to wring five years of ill use out of the building’s walls and floors, and it had been hard work, but he’d done it - though the effort had likely been what had led James Green to an early grave. Her brother, of course, had wanted nothing to do with the place, too busy with the furniture factory to worry over the running of a hotel as well, and now, if Jimmy had his way, it would be sold.

“You look worried,” her husband said, from the seat opposite. It wasn’t a full coach - travelers from their neck of the woods being few and far between these days. “I’d have thought you’d enjoy coming back - being in civilization again.” She said nothing, and he went on. “If it’s about your sister, I wouldn’t pay her any mind. We’ve still got our pride, even if she hasn’t, and that’s worth more than a dozen fine dresses and a house in the city. No,” he went on, “We’ll be just fine - as soon as we sign those papers and sell up. And then there’ll be plenty of money for that new dress you’ve been wanting. Can’t have my wife looking like a pauper for her family.”

 _And whose fault is it we’re poor?_ Emma wanted to say. _Whose choice was it to refuse a federal pardon so that no decent folk would employ you, and to take a parish in the poorest county in Virginia because they were the only ones who’d have you? Pride doesn’t put food on the table, or a roof over our heads._ But she’d learned much in ten years about men’s moods, about staying silent, and “being ‘haved”, as her Sunday School students would say. 

The coach pulled up, and he opened the door for her, helping her out into the street and then ordering their bags down from the roof, leaving her to contemplate the outside of the hotel, the words MANSION HOUSE HOTEL vivid once more over the doors, glass beautifully etched.

The first thing she noticed was the color - the richness of it, the vibrancy, crimson drapes and deep walnut woodwork, the navies and burgundies of thick carpet underfoot, well-lit from above by a magnificent, many-lamped gasolier. In her memories it was plain and whitewashed, and now? This hardly felt like the same place, especially with so many well-heeled travelers coming up and down the stairs, the ladies with their bustles and hats, the gentleman in waistcoats and jackets, not a shirtsleeve or apron to be seen. The air smelled of cigars, adding to the general air of well-fed opulence. 

Her husband breezed into the lobby behind her like he owned the place, leaning on the counter and giving the clerk one of his best, . All Emma could see was the back of his collar, fraying at the seam, one more testament to their present poverty. “Good Morning. I’ve a room booked - and a meeting today with Mr. Green. We’re expected.”

“And who should I say is here, sir?” The clerk asked, looking as though he very much doubted both of those things, posing his glasses on his nose so he could inspect his register.

“Mr. and Mrs. Frank Stringfellow,” he announced, smiling back at his wife with the pleased look of a man who knows he has made a good bargain.

Emma tried to smile back, thinking, wanly, as she stood in the lobby to wait for her brother and took in the carpets, the chandelier, the wallpaper, of a different time and different faces, feeling the ring under her glove and wondering where she had gone wrong, why she had chosen to leave the hospital, had chosen to stay in Virginia, had chosen Frank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've tagged Middlemarch for the next chapter of our story! Writing friends, it looks as though you'll need to update your settings to allow me to list you as co-creators so you can update your chapters when you write them!
> 
> Historically, Frank Stringfellow and Emma Green did marry, in 1867, and Frank did attend the Virginia Seminary to become a preacher, and he and his children maintained Confederate ties (as well as links to the nascent Klan) for the rest of his life. For the purposes of this story, they have no children.


	2. Chapter 2

Mary took a breath. Not a deep breath, nothing that might be construed as a sigh, as the precursor to a wince or, heaven forbid, any change in her posture that could possibly be perceived as the slightest discomfort. She didn’t dare fetch out her handkerchief to dab against her face or even to take in the fragrance of the rosewater Mrs. Mullins had used in its laundering, as a respite from the myriad displeasing scents of the train. Mary kept her gaze trained on the book in her hands and willed herself to make something of the words on the page. Could she close her eyes even for a moment? Might that only signify her contemplation of the complexity of the essay? A philosophical reverie?

“This was a mistake, I knew it,” Jed said, his voice calm—for now. She recognized the incipient ranting, Dr. Jedediah Thurmond Foster in highest dudgeon, and even though she knew his haranguing would be driven by his fearful affection, it would be another burden to bear. Another, when there were so many to carry, so many more than she might ever let him discover. She shut the book gently, obviously, and laid it in her lap, shifting slightly, hopeful that he would not notice the subtler movement of her hips. He hadn’t laced her stays tightly enough but she hadn’t been willing to travel with her maid Essie, who knew better how the corset could be a relief. It was enough she and Jedediah had left without further disordering the household.

“We’ll be arriving soon enough and I expect the hotel will have lemonade and coffee,” Mary said. She would sound bright and cheerful if it killed her. “To drink real coffee in Alexandria, after all that burnt chicory! My, it will be a revelation!”

“You’re not fooling me, madam, not a whit,” he said, narrowing his eyes. They were just as dark as ever though he’d gone notably grey in the interceding years, his temples silver first but now the lock that would fall across his brow and his beard were streaked as well. “We should never have agreed to come. Or I should have come alone, though I wouldn’t put it past you to push yourself beyond anything reasonable as soon as I’m not there to stop you.”

“You’d have me an invalid confined to my bed,” she said bitterly, before she could stop herself. Oh, how her back ached and her leg! Her netted hair was a terrible weight on her neck, her forehead a torment with an iron band closing around it. How she wished they were going to the cottage by the sea, where the breeze off the water was always cool and soft, the light similar, so gentle! Instead, they were due to arrive in Alexandria, with its close heat, its dusty streets, and its memories of blood and tears. Suddenly, the journey seemed nothing in comparison to the destination.

“I only want you to be well—” he began, as he always did.

“You may as well wish for Father Christmas to visit in July,” she retorted. “I’m well enough, don’t you see? I’m as well as I’m going to be… there’s no rest cure, no tonic you can devise for me. No treatment you can find in Paris or Bonn. I don’t care to spend the rest of my life tucked up alone in a four-poster bed.”

“You judge me harshly,” he answered. “I promised to care for you, in every way—not to drag you on a fool’s errand to Virginia after everything else you’ve gone through. If you’d listened to me, if you ever listened to anyone else instead of only your blasted principles—"

“It’s not a fool’s errand,” she interrupted. She would not argue with him again about her choices, whether they were inspired by her morals or her heart. It would change nothing and she regretted nothing. She could not regret the grief that had led her to the War, the nursing that led to an illness that had disabled her, the marriage to a man her society would hardly accept; the easy deliveries she’d had with Elias and Daniel that made her believe Johnny’s birth would be just as simple and not the awful horror that kept Jedediah from their bed all these many months, convinced his return would destroy her. She had thought to show him she had regained her strength but all he saw were her frailties. As to what awaited them in Alexandria, the letter so oblique and yet such a plaintive entreaty, she must face it with all the vigor and equanimity of the Baroness von Olnhausen who’d first arrived in a blue bonnet and traveling cloak, so he would see her still in Mrs. Jedediah Foster.

“Well, I’m making it and I’ve only ever been a fool. I believe that something you’ll agree with, Mary, if you agree with nothing else,” he said, reaching for her gloved hand and crossing his legs. Despite everything, his shoes were polished to a mirror’s shine, his trousers’ crease knife-sharp. He’d chosen the indigo silk waistcoat with its elaborate acanthus pattern today. And yet, he’d shed his coat and roll up his shirtsleeves in an instant if someone needed him.

“You’re determined to be disagreeable, I see. You’re a fool when it suits you,” she said.

“Like Lear’s?” he asked. He hadn’t let go of her hand, always willing to disregard propriety when it suited him. Since the children had come, she’d given up the possibility of changing him as she was increasingly outnumbered. He had allies, all with his own brown eyes. 

“I shouldn’t say that exactly,” she said. “I certainly hope this proves to be far from a tragedy.”

“As always, I admire your boundless optimism. We are going to Alexandria, after all. They may call the place a hotel now, but Mansion House can never be anything more to me than the hospital it was, a charnel-house. A place of the utmost misery,” he said. Mary squeezed his hand lightly. 

“And mercy,” she replied. He smiled, such a sweet smile, the one that belonged to her alone.

“It’ll be a mercy to be in Alexandria without Our Liverish Lady of Crimea,” he quipped. Mary laughed softly.

“She wasn’t so bad,” she said. 

“‘The memory of everything is very soon overwhelmed in time,’” he countered.

“You, quoting Marcus Aurelius? I don’t think I can bear any more shocks today, Dr. Foster,” she said. If they had been alone, she would have called him _Jedediah_ and lifted her mouth for a kiss, waiting to see if he would risk it.

“I’ll see to it you needn’t,” he said.

“Promises, promises,” she said.

“I’ve never broken a promise to you, Mary, and I don’t intend to start now,” he said. She’d remember that later, his baritone so certain, the train’s scent of cinders and cigar-smoke, his hand holding hers and the pain that had held her in its invisible grasp. A lifetime later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You knew I was going to start with Mary, didn't you? I've tried to make this Mary a version of the many post-canon fanfic Marys we've seen before and I hope MercuryGray is okay with me adding only child Elias to the growing brood I've given Mary and Jed. Phoster is married, but not entirely happily, and this Mary struggles with the consequences of the illness that removed her from Mansion House as well as other health problems and perhaps something else... My allusions to King Lear and Marcus Aurelius are easily sourced, so I won't trouble you with citations :) I also tried to add a little to the plot and leave more threads for future writers to pick up, though given our small pool, I expect we will each have another chance to write again...


	3. Chapter 3

Henry brought the letter with him, his only companion on the train ride down. In the past few years he had grown accustomed to being alone. It held more comfort than another person nearby. It was safer that way. 

He had opened and then refolded it so many times it was prematurely worn, almost as delicate now as the picture Lisette had drawn of Emma and slipped in his Bible over a decade ago, right at Proverbs 31 ( _For her worth is far above rubies_ ). That treasure he had unfolded often enough upon first receiving it, and then hardly ever again after leaving Mansion House. It remained in his Bible, along with other prayers and portraits and news clippings. 

A folded up portion of the Alexandria Gazette proclaiming Union victory right at Colossians 3:15 ( _And let the peace of God rule…_ ).

Jed's joyful letter declaring Mary well tucked in at Psalm 30:2 ( _O Lord my God, I cried unto thee, and thou hast healed me_ ). 

A formal photograph of a soldier who had been brought into the hospital and died before his lips could form a word, this the only item on his person. Henry used it to pray for all the fallen men each time he read 2 Timothy _(…Our Savior Jesus Christ, who has abolished death and brought life and immortality to light through the gospel_ ). 

The corners of Revelation 21 ( _And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes; there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying. There shall be no more pain_ ) and Isaiah 11 ( _with the breath of His lips He shall slay the wicked_ ) were now so worn as to be brittle.

He knew it was best he was alone. That he remain alone. His own thumb most often found Ephesians 4 ( _In your anger do not sin_ ), a struggle he came back to again and again, no easier now though it was familiar. His anger felt like a constant companion, one that whispered and urged him beneath the surface to various actions, sometimes righteous, sometimes jealous, always seeking to control him.

It was best he was alone. Twice now, he had caused the death of another in his anger. And what if that predilection made manifest in new ways? Who else could be hurt by him if he let them get close?

On the way to Alexandria, he thought of who he would see there. Friends he had exchanged letters with and prayed for. Former friends who he prayed for but dared not write to. Especially the one who had been so hurt and confused by his coldness. 

He unfolded the letter once more and smoothed his hand across it, as he had once done so often with the worried brows of soldiers trying to find peace. And he wondered if she had touched it too. Had Emma helped her sister write the letter? Did any part of her hope to see him? Did she even know of Alice’s schemes?

When he arrived, by coach and train and coach again, he had a brief sensation of being transported back in time. But Mary was now delicate in a way she hadn’t been even after typhoid left its mark. Jed was noticeably older, graying hair taking over. And Emma was on the arm of Frank, wedding ring loose on her finger, spinning and spinning as they all exchanged greetings in the front parlor where it seemed he had just yesterday carried Tom’s body through to her heaving sobs. 

Thrust suddenly into the future, the hospital was now a hotel. The sensation was like being thrown from a horse, finding yourself suddenly and inexplicably on the ground after sitting confidently in the saddle. He noticed all this of his friends. What did they notice of him? His new suit, picked out and fussed over by his sister? The lack of a wife on his arm, paired up as they all were? His new dependence on glasses, not just for reading?

Alice floated into the room on the arm of a man whose face was familiar to Henry, though he couldn’t quite remember his name. Alice was resplendent in richly made silks, a feat that had been more gruesome and impressive during war time, but now seemed to be accomplished for the single purpose of bothering Emma and Frank. Emma’s cheeks had reddened at the sight of her and Frank’s brow furrowed, his irritation a visible thing. Henry wondered at the lack of greeting between them. Perhaps they had already spoken before being shuffled into this room with the rest.

Alice turned to the man on her arm and smiled, seeming to invite him to address the group but then quickly spoke over him before he could quite get the words out.

“Welcome back to Mansion House! Thank you kindly for responding to my letter; we are so grateful you could come even though what I sent was surely too cryptic to be understood.”

Henry thought he saw Jed roll his eyes. He definitely saw Mary give him a quick nudge with her elbow. 

“I signed the letter with my maiden name so you would know me, but please, meet my husband. Some of you I believe have already made his acquaintance in this very location! Friends, this is Esteemed Lecturer and Researcher at Georgetown, and former Union Major, Doctor Percival Squivers!”

Jed was the first to respond. “Squivers! What a delight to see you again! I’m thrilled that Mansion House was not the end of your medical endeavors.”

Henry didn’t think Percival noticed the smile on Jed’s mouth and certainly not what it signified, utter bemusement and the start of merciless teasing. Emma and Frank nodded at Percival, and Henry thought they must have met before. The greeting was cold, but neither party seemed surprised by the presence of the other. Henry shook hands with Percival, murmuring politely, like he had to do on any number of occasions with acquaintances or former students not well remembered, but who he nevertheless wanted to greet well. Alice continued speaking.

“We have some more who will be joining us and I’ll explain more when they are here. For now, let’s have a nice visit with refreshments and the lovely remembrances of our time here in days long gone by.”

Alice walked across the room and sat in a chair, beckoning for those standing to take seats as well. Her husband made a move to sit down next to her and she caught his wrist before he did and looked up at him from under her long lashes.

“Bring up the sweet tea. And bring up Bullen; he’s likely in the kitchens seeing how much we’ve changed things here. Thank you, Dearest.”

Pervical went quickly and Alice continued to dominate the conversation. She told how the hotel had been brought back to its former glory, how she and her husband and her mother had continued on the legacy after Daddy’s passing, how her brother would love to come see them all and would soon, of course. Henry thought she seemed to be preventing them from speaking to each other or from asking her questions and thought what a skilled lecturer she would make if only the topic made sense.

Percival came back, but it wasn’t with sweet tea or lemonade or pecan crisps. He ran into the room towards his wife, squeaked “He’s dead!” And in a stunning display of déjà vu, fainted directly onto the floor with a crack that sounded like a gunshot. 

Others noticed Percival’s bloody hands, his missing glasses, how Alice recoiled from him rather than trying to break his fall. But all Henry saw was Emma, moving towards the fallen man, Frank reaching for her waist but missing, a frown where a winsome smile usually was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously I had to start with Henry, and make him pine hard-core for Emma. Some of the gang isn't in the parlor but who knows, they could already be in Alexandria! Thank you The Spastic Fantastic for beta-ing and especially for the impressive title for Percival Squivers, who we hope will soon be away from blood and guts and just lecturing about them back in Georgetown soon.


	4. Chapter 4

Of course the bloody train was late. Anne shouldn’t have expected anything less upon her return to Mansion House. Nothing in the last ten years had worked out the way she had thought it would, so why should the return journey be any different?

Her fingers itched to reach into her carpetbag and remove the flask that she had stashed there--she couldn’t quite give up that old habit, no matter how hard she tried--but she forced them to remain still in her lap. The last thing she needed was to empty her reserves before she even crossed the threshold of the hotel! She busied herself with reaching for the letter that had summoned her instead, the creases soft with repeated readings, the ink blurred in places. She had it memorized by now, but her eyes skimmed the contents anyway. The letter had been a shock--she did not, as a rule, keep contact with many people from the war. Byron’s sporadic letters had long since been burned. She had received word of Emma Green’s pending nuptials, and when the first Foster boy had been born. The other letters, bearing any news of her former colleagues, were few and far between. Her most regular correspondent in the years following the war had been Bridget Brannan, and when the letter in her hand had arrived, she had stared at it for several minutes without blinking, half-expecting it to disappear before her eyes. She hadn’t even opened it for several days, leaving it on the hall table to stare at her accusingly every time she walked past. Finally, she had been unable to resist the siren call.

New York had bid her farewell with ominous dark clouds and a driving, freezing rain that Anne hoped wasn’t a harbinger of the journey to come. The weather had lightened as the train sped south, but the feeling of foreboding had not left Anne. She folded up the letter and stuffed it back into her bag, both wishing that the journey would go faster and never come to an end at all. Her heart raced like a simpering schoolgirl’s, and her palms were starting to sweat. Anne hated this feeling, the feeling of not being in control of the situation, of not knowing exactly what she was walking into.

Getting on the train had been a mistake. Not throwing that wretched letter directly into the fire where it belonged had been a mistake.

“Oh, snap out of it, Hastings,” she scolded herself in a whisper. It was a hotel she was going to be walking into, not a lion’s den. _These people, they used to be your..._

Friends was not quite the right word. Anne wasn’t sure the right word existed to describe her relationships with Mary Phinney and Jedediah Foster, with Emma Green and Bridget Brannan and the lot of them. They had been, in equal measure, rivals and enemies and nuisances and, yes, friends, and maybe even...Miss Green would have been quick to use the word _family_ , but Anne was reluctant. Still, perhaps she was being ridiculous. Surely it couldn’t be nearly as bad as she feared.

_Oh Anne, if you truly believe that, then you’ve learned nothing in the past ten years._

_\----------------------_

Any attempt to sleep on the train was futile, at best. When they finally reached Alexandria, Anne’s back was aching something fierce and there was a pain in her jaw from clenching it the last hundred miles. She made it off the train as night was falling, accidentally over-tipping the hapless porter who helped her with her luggage. Oh well. Plenty more where that came from, she decided. At least that was one thing from the last ten years that Anne did not regret.

Mansion House Hotel, when she finally arrived, stood tall and imposing in the fading light. The air was thick with humidity and dust and the cloying smell of magnolia blossoms. Anne stood there for a moment after the carriage pulled away, staring up at the structure that had been her home throughout the long years of the war. If she squinted, would she still be able to see the ghostly figures of so long ago? The phantoms, not just of dead soldiers but of orderlies, doctors, nurses too, who had once lived and worked within these walls? If Anne stood still as a statue, would she see the ghost of who she used to be? Would she want to?

And what other ghosts were within these walls? Who would she encounter when she walked through the doors? She thought of Emma, married all these years to--what the blazes was his name again? She thought of Henry, teaching at some university, no doubt withering away behind piles of dusty books and trying to bury his long-lost love for the former Miss Green. She thought of Byron--and just as easily pushed the thought away. _He_ would not be joining this little soiree, of that she had no doubt. He was long gone, gone for her at least, far off in the wilds of California, and good riddance to bad rubbish, and all that.

Mary and Jed Foster. Would they be there? Anne was almost certain that they would. And Emma’s sister, the frothy little thing with her head full of blonde curls and--

A shout from down the street startled Anne from her thoughts, and she shook her head as if that alone would be enough to quell her anxiety. Enough dithering at the door, she decided. She straightened her back--ignoring the way it sent a pang all the way down her spine, _damn_ the seats on that train--adjusted her grip on her bag, and walked up to the door.

Her knock was met with nothing but silence, and she stood there a moment in confusion. Had she somehow made a mistake? Was the hotel vacant after all? No, not possible--lamps were lit inside and she could make out the faint sound of voices. She tried the handle, the brass polished to a gleam where it had once been dull and bloodstained, and found it unlocked. Before she could talk herself out of it, she pushed the door open and walked inside.

Part of her wanted to explore--in spite of herself, she was curious as to what sort of transformation Mansion House had endured in the years since the war. But she found herself following the sound of the voices, past the staircase--how many times had she climbed those stairs!--to the main parlor. The many beds that had once littered the room were gone now, replaced by new-looking furniture that no doubt came from the Green’s own factory. And there, assembled like pieces on a chessboard, were the very faces she had come to see.

There was Alice Green, who no doubt fancied herself the queen in a sea of pawns. Henry Hopkins, standing nearby, fidgeting slightly with his glasses as he adjusted their position on the bridge of his nose-- he was a Knight or a Rook. Jedediah Foster, a little more grey than she remembered, but his face was unmistakable--a bishop, perhaps...

A shout of terror pulled Anne out of her reverie. She looked up just in time to see a man run in--his face was familiar to her, that hapless medical student, whatever his name had been. "He’s dead!” he cried out before his eyes rolled back dramatically and he crumpled to the floor in a dead faint. Anne stared at him a moment, noting his bloodstained hands, his disheveled clothes, the beginnings of what would no doubt become a sizeable bump on his head. 

_Well, that’s one way to begin the evening, I suppose._

No one seemed to have noticed Anne yet--the dramatic entrance of Mr. What’s-his-name had stolen her moment away. She gently sat her bags down on the floor, hoping to make as little noise as possible. As she straightened up and smoothed the skirts of her traveling gown, Emma Green sprang into action. The man standing beside her--the husband, no doubt--reached for her instinctively, trying to pull her back, but Emma was already kneeling beside the poor soul on the floor. Anne couldn’t help but smile at that, the sight of a nurse’s instincts taking over. She’d had her doubts about this one, in the beginning, but Emma Green had proven her wrong time and time again. “Emma,” her husband hissed, his mouth twisting into an ugly grimace. No doubt he was embarrassed at her actions, or else irritated that her dress would be soiled by the blood. Anne instantly decided that she disliked him. “Emma, for God’s sake, get up off the floor.”

“A pillow for his head, please!” she called out to no one in particular, ignoring him completely. In response, he made a noise at the back of his throat that some might have called a sigh and retreated to a corner to brood in silence.

There was someone, however, who heeded Emma’s call, reaching for a pillow off of the nearest settee. Anne hadn’t noticed her a first, hidden as she had been behind Doctor Foster, who was now a flurry of motion as he raced off towards the kitchen to investigate. “Here,” Mary said softly, handing the pillow over as quickly as she could manage. She moved slower than Anne had ever seen her, her posture more stooped, a slight tremor in her movements that hadn’t been there during the war. Anne watched for for a moment, unsure of what to dot. This, this changed Mary Phinney, had not been something that she had expected. 

Emma accepted the pillow with a smile but never took her focus off of her patient, slipping it beneath his head and feeling his neck for a pulse. “Weak, but steady. He’s had a good fright, but he’ll be all right.”

There was a pause, and then Alice Green spoke. “Oh, thank the Lord,” she whispered. Anne couldn’t help but roll her eyes at the delay in her reaction. Someone, it seemed, had not changed at all since the war. It would have been a comfort if the entire situation wasn’t so...unsettling.

Anne decided it was time to announce herself rather than wait for someone to notice her. “My my, I see the party has started without me,” she said loudly, making half a dozen heads swivel towards her. She watched Mary’s eyes widen as she took in the sight of her, and she almost smiled.

“Anne. You came.” Was that _relief_ in her voice?

“Well, of course I did,” Anne said briskly. “I was invited, after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Terk from Tarzan voice* The fuuuuuuuuuuuun has arriiiiiiiiiiiived!
> 
> Okay, maybe not. But Anne Hastings is on the scene so look out, Alexandria!
> 
> Thanks so much to tortoiseshells and mercurygray for betaing, and middlemarch for consulting and offering input as well. (And to everyone for helping me figure out how to accept the invitation to join the story...sorry I'm such a Luddite, y'all!)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlotte and Sam travel north from Hampton - while neither expected the reunion to be wholly a happy one, Charlotte' still a little surprised by how quickly things become unpleasant.

**i.**

Roads, trains, steamboats: it was all old news to Charlotte Diggs. Travel! There was a kind of glory in the movement, even when tired – and surely she was tired. Had been tired for some time, and, Lord willing, she’d keep on being tired for a while yet. Even three years after the shameful dissolution of the Freedmen’s Bureau, there was still so much to do – and so little with which to accomplish it. Still. Charlotte hadn’t stopped or backed down in nearly two decades, and she wasn’t about to start now.

The grey Virginia countryside, still bearing the marks of the War, sped by the window: It wasn’t much of a trip from Hampton to Alexandria, once she and Samuel had boarded the train; the real journey had been in getting to the station. She had her work at the Normal School, Samuel had his patients – and the twins needed somewhere to stay. And before any of that – should they even go? She and Sam recognized the sure hand on the address and in the message, but their friend’s invitation had come with a warning – it wouldn’t just be _friends_ , and they understood if Charlotte and Sam wouldn’t want to put up with the Greens and worse for the sake of memories that were themselves clouded.

Still. She and Sam had left Jack and Harriet with their neighbors with a promise to return soon, took their bags in hand, and went on their way.

**ii.**

Belinda and George met them at the station, two beacons of welcome in the middle of the acrid coal smoke and chaos.

“The twins send their love,” said Sam, who hadn’t yet been able to stop beaming whenever their old friends called him ‘Doctor’.

“And some proof of their labors,” she added, holding out some folded papers for Belinda: there was a letter from Harriet, and a drawing from Jack of something that might have been an apple tart.

Belinda laughed to see it, grinning and pressing Charlotte’s hand, and filled her in on everything that had happened since her last letter: milestones and anniversaries, who had been married, and who had given birth, who was reading now and which children had lost teeth. It was strange, wasn’t it, to hear the litany of life laid over the streets of Alexandria? Strange and – well, not ‘pleasant’. Defiant. There’d been so much pain in this place – still was, she could see – but the joy came up like the first flowers of spring through frost-bound earth.

She knew Sam saw it, too, her hand warm in his.

They parted ways with their friends on Fairfax Street, the silhouette of Mansion House looming against the sky, the comings and goings of the obviously prosperous through the ornate front doors seeming both loathsome and insubstantial. Having seen cotton fields and tobacco fields, you never forgot where all those watered-silk dresses and high-strung carriage horses came from; Charlotte had the same feeling about this place. All the peppermint oil in the world hadn’t been able to cover up the stench of the dead in the Virginia sun those ten years ago, and no amount of plush carpeting or ornate gilded moulding could hide what it had been now.

“I’ll talk to the clerk,” Sam said at the doorstep, taking her bag, “If you want to go ahead, around back? Go see Leah and the rest?” 

She did. And she pretty quickly came to regret it.

**iii.**

It wasn’t like she’d never seen a corpse before, no. Death and cruelty stalked the fields of her youth, hand in hand, long before the War had officially begun in South Carolina; even after that, in dusty and hostile towns across the South, she’d seen what Klansmen and Redeemers were willing to do for the sake of the old times. There was death she mourned to see, and then, well, there was _this_ : the rapidly-cooling remains of Silas Bullen, bled out across the basement floor.

Charlotte, though hardy upset, still had to steady herself – she’d been thinking of the gruesome past of this place, but hadn’t expected it to surface in just this way – bad memories she could handle; she even almost expected to turn a corner and see what wasn’t actually there. Bullen _was_ there, though, and so was that puddle of blood. She stepped back to keep her hem clear.

A horrible crash – Dr. Squivers had unsteadied the pots and pans as he scuttled off, and some one or two finally came crashing to the floor. Apart from that, the kitchens were descended into an unnatural and uneasy quiet, fallen as quickly as a winter night. It was a mess, yes, but Leah Gordon, Peter Freeman, and some others who had been in Mansion House since they’d run north, during the War, and weren’t at all broken up to see it. That was fine; they and Charlotte could keep the scene clear while all hell broke loose upstairs.

“Did you see what happened?” she asked, though she already knew the answer. A child could follow the smear of gore back towards one of the pantries – out of sight of the whirl and heat of the kitchen, and close enough that anything said or done in there would be unheard under the usual din.

“No,” said Leah. She wiped her hands on her apron – bloody, yes, but she’d been handling a side of beef just delivered.

Charlotte thought of a curse, and then another. She and Leah both knew how that looked, and how any white lawman would see it – and someone was already descending the stairs two or three at a time.

“Get back to it,” she nodded, and positioned herself between the stairs and the kitchen.

“Where is he? Where’s that Bullen? – oh. Hello, Mrs. Diggs.”

“Doctor Foster,” Charlotte replied, surveying her old comrade (however unwilling, at times) in arms, from his greying hair to his well-polished boots, “He’s right here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is heavy on the foreboding and lite on the plot, for which I apologize.
> 
> The Freedmen's Bureau was pretty unceremoniously dissolved in 1872, and in this universe I imagine that Charlotte had been working there since the outset; she and Sam have settled in Hampton, Virginia - site of the Hampton Normal and Agricultural Institute, officially chartered as a land grant school in 1870, but with roots going back to schools for the newly-free since the early days of the war. I don't think Charlotte particularly agrees wholeheartedly with the rhetoric of uplift as enunciated and espoused by the School's founders, but the Normal school and others like it did important work in the Reconstruction and post-Reconstruction South - and the disappointments of the post-war world are themselves a theme here, it seems.
> 
> Tag, you're it, Sagiow!


	6. Chapter 6

"Oh. Hello, Mrs. Diggs.” 

“Dr. Foster. He’s right here.” 

Right here he was: still a repulsive whale of a man, bloated, covered in clothes unwashed for surely a few Sundays. Even if the years had been more numerous than would have been necessary or fair for such a wretched creature, they had not been kind. Whatever he had encountered mere minutes ago, even less. 

Jedidiah came closer, skirting the large table in the center, and examined the body on the floor. Face-down, the only sign that there had been any source of foul play was the large pool of blood in which he bathed, of which traces could be seen leading back to one of the pantries, and the disarray of pots and pans strewn along the way. 

Across the table stood Charlotte and a kitchen maid, yielding a threatening knife. “Hello, Miss,” he greeted her as pleasantly as he would have, had they met each other on market day or outside of church after the service. “I’m Jedidiah Foster, a former colleague of Mrs. Diggs. Would you, per chance, be privy to the cause of this mishap?” 

The woman eyed him wearily over the meat slab she had been preparing. “Leah Gordon, sir. And no sir; I been fixin’ supper, and only just stepped out to greet Charlotte here, and we heard a terrible ruckus. He was like this when we came back in. The noise was Mr. Squivers’s doin’.” 

“That’s right,” said Charlotte. “I was with them the whole time in the yard.” 

Jed nodded, faced with the lesser of two evils to choose: flip a corpse, or investigate a homicide scene. He thought of Mary, of their three boys, of the puppy that did not sound so terrible now, and inwardly, vehemently cursed Alice Gre- Squivers _(_ _Squivers_ _._ God Almighty.) for having drawn them all into this nightmare. 

Still, his investigative mind was never one to shrug off a challenge, no matter how odious the object. 

As Mr. Bullen was visibly not going anywhere anytime soon, he opted to examine the scene of the crime. The door was still open, a bloody handprint upon it, and, after borrowing Leah’s knife, should the killer still be within, he peeked around it to take in the dimly lit room. 

The pantry was the equivalent of a war zone, or as close to one as Jed had seen ten years prior when there was an actual war waging on. The oil lamp hooked by the door was the only item still standing. Shelves were strewn to the floor, produce and products spilled across the room, and obliterating the alleged ground zero of the blood trail. Most impressive were the four large hams that laid within in, and Jed could not help but feel a pang as to all this wasted meat; he then felt another pang about his initial one having been about _hams_ , and not a dead fellow man, but just as quickly dismissed it on account of who it was that had died. Through all his remorse about lack of remorse, it was clear that some violence had occurred here; Bullen had not gone down without a fight. Whoever had attacked him could not have gotten away cleanly, yet gotten away, they had. 

Yet, he could not learn anything more without disturbing the scene, and was wrought to do so without other witnesses or assistants. Returning his attention to the kitchen, he was again faced with the dreary task that remained to be done, should he hope to achieve anything worth reporting upstairs. 

“Mrs. Diggs...” he sighed. “I truly hate to impose... but might you lend me a hand, to help turn Mr. Bullen around, and learn more about his demise?” 

Charlotte looked at him as if he’d proposed removing all of her teeth, one by one, with only his thumb and forefinger. “No. I’d hate to get blood on my dress for _that._ ” 

“Please. Should that occur, I’ll be happy to buy you a new one; Heaven knows I owe Samuel Diggs much more than a few bolts of fabric.” 

Charlotte stared him down, and the pool of blood around them. “Well, he’s awfully big... I expect we might need Leah’s help too.” 

_Glad to see some people do not change. Charlotte Jenkins, Survivor Extraordinaire, always one to recognize an opportunity, and milk it for all it’s worth._ He smiled tightly and bowed his head. 

“The offer extends to Miss Leah as well, of course.” 

The two women exchanged a glance, and nodded. Stepping on one side of the body and gingerly avoiding stepping into the blood, they waited for Jed to grab onto his shoulder and hip, and on the count of three, heavily rolled him to onto his back. 

Oh Lord. That was not what he had expected. 

Both women gasped and quickly turned around, Charlotte’s arm reaching protectively around Leah’s shoulders; the look she shot Jed along the way was filled with revulsion and outright anger. 

“I’m so sorry, I couldn’t kn...-,” he attempted to apologize, too late. “Jesus Christ.” 

The belt buckle slid and fell into the blood, the metallic twang absorbed in a viscous squish. Jed grabbed a dishrag and threw it to cover the offensive sight, his own outrage raising as he stood. 

_Damn you, Bullen, you degenerate scum._

_Some people do not change, indeed._

* * *

Upstairs in the parlor, all eyes had drifted from Dr. Squivers, still very much unconscious on the floor but passably comfortable upon his pillow, to Anne Hastings by the door. “A drop too much champagne?” she asked, to break the tension. “I do hope he's left me some, it’s been a long trip.” 

Both her former colleagues smiled warmly as she came up to them. “It’s so good to see you, Miss Hastings,” said Emma, raising from the floor to clasp her hand. “I fear my bother-in-law will require your skills.” 

“Yours appear to be highly sufficient, Miss Green,” she replied lightly, foregoing any attempt at remembering the sullen man’s name, which drew no correction from his wife. 

Alice did not look as happy as her sister. “Invited, you say?” she asked haughtily. “Not by me, certainly.” 

“Indeed not.” Anne confirmed, but did not oblige the sour creature with any further details. _You cannot teach an old dog new tricks.... nor manners, apparently_. Instead, she took Mary’s arm. “Mrs. Foster... my poor back’s been battered by these dreadful train seats, and I expect they were not any kinder to you. Sit with me, will you? 

There was a flash of gratitude in Mary’s dark eyes – eyes with the same bright intelligence she remembered, but softer, wearier. Eyes that had seen much, and felt even more. She expected her own did not differ that much. 

Together, they returned to the settee, and Anne noticed the cane resting against it, the way Mary touched it briefly. It made her sit just a bit closer to her. “Mary,” she whispered, “Whatever happened-” 

She did not get any further, as she was interrupted by the arrival of a tall, beautiful woman, not a stranger but not familiar either, the quintessential picture of feminine elegance in blonde curls, turquoise and green bustles and bows, if not for the small revolver in her hand. 

“What in Heaven’s name is the source of this _brouhaha_?” she exclaimed. 

“Mrs. Foster?!” 

* * *

The cry had come from one of the pastors, the older one with the glasses. She scoffed with a half laugh. “Mrs. Foster?! Oh dear, nobody has called me that in over a decade! How ghastly!” 

As quickly as all eyes had turned to her upon entry, they now shifted to the dark-haired women on the sofa, who was visibly struggling to keep a neutral, open face and straight posture. _Well, well. Could it_ _be? The_ _famous Baroness?_

“No, my dear Reverend,” she corrected him kindly, the pale woman never escaping the corner of her blue gaze. “It’s Mrs. Hale now.” 

As if on cue, all gazes shifted from the sudden frown of the lame woman, to the stunned redhead by her side, who was not as successful as her seatmate in keeping her emotion in check. _Dear Lord, this was_ much _too easy_. 

“But that is all so trivial!” Eliza dismissed it with a wave of her gun. “My dear Mrs. Squivers, what has befallen your husband? I heard a gunshot, I came equipped in kind. A Californian habit, I’m afraid. You never know what wild beasts you might encounter upon a leisurely walk. So which has he, in this fine parlor of yours?” 

“His own nerves,” Alice replied coldly. “There was no gunshot; that was his head upon the floorboard.” 

“Praise the Lord! A nasty bump is one thing, a dead body would have been quite another,” she quipped. 

The silence in the room grew heavier. Granted, it wasn’t the greatest of jokes, but that reaction was unduly harsh. 

Thankfully, it was interrupted by characteristic footfalls behind her, heralding the arrival of her husband, brandishing a bottle of spirits. “There you are, my love. They only had sherry, will that – Eliza! Why on earth do you have your gun out?!" 

“Quite the funny story, darling.” She threaded her arm sweetly through his and drew him into the parlor. “Speaking of which, do come in and greet your old friends.” 

Passing the doorway, he froze, recognizing one old familiar face after the other. "What the devil...” 

The shock was even greater the other way around. 

* * *

Mary watched the man she had just been told to be Doctor Hale, yet could not quite believe it. This... incarnation before them had gained not only a few years, a few pounds and a beard, but also an eyepatch and from the lack of a shoe, a wooden leg. It was a jarring sight, all the more because he appeared to be well aware of it, and to take a certain pleasure from their stupor. 

“Sweet Lord, Dr. Hale!” exclaimed Emma. “What happened to you?” 

“An artillery shot against my cavalry unit, Selma ,‘65. My poor horse got the worst of it.” He waved away her shocked expression with the bottle. “Oh, I assure you, it turned out to be an absolute godsend, my dear Miss Green – no, Mrs... what is it again? Well, in any case, the charge that ended my field career also ended fighting in Alabama, and saved a battalion's and our general’s lives. So after my prolonged convalescence – my attending surgeon had nowhere near my skill, but who does? - the United States Army made me a proposal I couldn’t refuse. And neither could Eliza, finally, after many years and many, _many_ other proposals,” he added, with a wink to the woman at his arm, who nudged him back amusedly. 

It was at this moment of conspiratorial coupling that Jedidiah Foster sprang through the main door. “Samuel, Henry, I’m going to need – _Hale?_ Is that you?... And... oh hell, **_Eliza?_ **!?” 

“Oh heavens, Jed,” she sighed. “We’ve been though the introductions already. How so like you to be late for them.” 

Mary’s eyes shifted wearily from the stylish couple to her own husband, his flummoxed complexion progressively matching the purple of his waistcoat as he searched for words. “Weren’t you in California?” he finally said. “What are you doing here? With _him_?” 

The bitter tone in which he added this made her recoil in her seat, and she would have sunk even lower had Anne not pressed her hand subtly at her back in support. 

Obvious to all this, Eliza continued. “We were, but Colonel Hale’s new position was prestigious enough to get me to abandon my beloved Sacramento and come back to the Eastern seaboard.” 

“By ship, this time,” Hale confirmed, oddly eagerly. “Much better.” 

“ _Colonel_ Hale?” echoed Hopkins. 

“Actually, soon to be _Rear Admiral_ Hale,” announced Eliza, squeezing her husband’s arm proudly. “Supervising Surgeon General of the United States Marine Hospital Service.” 

It took everything in Mary’s power not to bring her hand to her brow and hang her head, nor to shoot across the room to Jedidiah as she has so often done when morphine had screamed loudest and an outburst was imminent. She only clasped her hands tightly in her lap, finding some comfort from the increased pressure of Anne's touch and the concerned glances the pastor and his former flame briefly risked her way.

“Supervising... Surgeon... General,” repeated Jed slowly, each syllable apparently causing him great pain. 

“Yes, it is quite a new position,” Hale said boastfully. “The utmost in terms of medical military authority, and general public health.” 

Mary watched Jed’s hand clench over the door frame, and was surprised that it remained intact. She half-expected the jamb to come undone, and be violently hurled across to Hale’s forehead, and there to be another limp body upon the floor. 

Somehow, he managed to restrain himself. “Well then, Your Rear Admiralty, your eminent authority might be needed in the kitchen. If you can manage steep stairs on that peg leg.” 

“Whatever for?” 

“Our old steward, Bullen, is dead. In... delicate circumstances. So, sirs, if we could first perhaps dispose of Dr. Squivers someplace more decorous, I would require your assistance on the graver matter afterwards. And Dr. Diggs’s as well, should we manage to find him; I was told he’d be here with you all.” 

Emma nodded. “I’ll go seek him, he might’ve run into problems with the clerk. Frank, Hen- Reverend Hopkins, could you please take Percival upstairs? Alice, show them the way, will you? I’ll fix us all some tea afterwards; I feel we’ll need it.” 

Progressively, the room emptied, each to their set-out task, until only Eliza and Anne remained with Mary, and she very much cursed her leg from preventing her to have gone along with anyone else. 

“This is much too exciting for tea, don’t you think, ladies?” Eliza said brightly, opening the sherry and pouring them glasses, as if this was a pleasant after-dinner _soirée_ , and a man did not lay dead one floor below. She lifted her own to the two of them. “I just have a feeling we’ll be the greatest of friends. After all, with... _everything_ between us... we three are practically family." 

If Mary had so far managed to not completely regret making the trip, the loaded, sparkling blue gaze her husband’s dazzling former wife bore down upon her finally achieved it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I apologize for it taking so long, and for it *being* so long. Too many ideas, too many strings to tie, too many Haliza opportunities not to squander, and you know I'm hopeless when it comes to my baby shipmonster. I hope their inclusion was worth the extra word count.
> 
> Why isn’t anyone suggesting they call the police yet? An excellent, most pertinent question, but outside the scope of the present paper. 
> 
> If the whole Haliza plot bunny came out of nowhere for you in this, head on to the monster's lair for their Origin Story :  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/22872142/chapters/54667288
> 
> The Surgeon General position came into being in 1870, with various incarnations, titles and ranks over the next 10 years and holders. Hale is kind of a mishmash of them all. 
> 
> the-spastic-fantastic requested a raincheck on writing the next chapter, so tag goes to MercuryGray!
> 
> Cheers to whoever spots the Jimmy cameo.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam Diggs is, as luck would have it, having trouble at the front desk.

Sam had known there would be trouble with the front desk.

There’d been some distraction a little while ago as two men had carried a guest through the lobby (drunk, at this time of day? The man hadn’t looked the type, but anything was possible in a hotel, he supposed) but still - there were only so many times the clerk could pretend not to see his name in the reservation list.

"I'm terribly sorry, sir," the clerk repeated officiously for the third time (the word 'sir' said with the designated hiss indicating the speaker thinks a person anything but) "but you're not in the register. You must be mistaken."

Sam took a deep breath and tried to collect every ounce of patience he'd ever owned, glad, for once, that Charlotte wasn't here to lose her own temper. "If you could look one more time - I wrote several weeks ago requesting a room and received a reply that the reservation would be here, under Doctor Samuel - "

The disdain in the clerk's smile could have peeled paint. "I very much doubt that. Perhaps some  _ other  _ hotel in town will take you - but we're full up. " His eye caught sight of someone behind Sam, moving through the lobby, and moved slightly down the desk to catch their attention, clearly considering the conversation with Sam closed. "Oh, Mrs. Stringfellow! There's a message for you, from Mr. Green. He said to tell you he'd see you tonight, at dinner." 

Sam turned to see what the bearer of an unfortunate moniker like Stringfellow looked like, and found himself staring at a familiar - though changed - face.

Emma Green had been a fresh-faced young woman of twenty-three when Sam had left Mansion House all those years ago, but the woman now standing at the desk had done some growing up since then, it seemed, and not in the idle lap of luxury afforded by her childhood here. Sam had spent enough time among the poorly paid and proud free black community to know what a turned hem and a re-trimmed hat looked like. and this woman had both, what had once been a nice dress showing signs of its age. Not for her the tight and trim current bustled skirts - her dress sat in a somewhat older style, the drape clearly done at home and not the work of some master dressmaker. 

"Thank you, Daniel. I need tea in the salon, for ... four. We've all had a bit of a fright."

"Of course, ma'am, I'll see to it straight away. I was just getting rid of...the baggage." His eye slid to Sam, waiting patiently to resume their standoff.

She turned, and paused, genuinely surprised and, Sam thought, not a little delighted to see a familiar face. "Why, Doctor Diggs, as I live and breathe. I didn't know we'd be seeing you."

"I didn't know if we'd be able to make it, Miss - Mrs... Stringfellow. Seems there's...been a misunderstanding with the register." His voice was intentionally vague, pretending to politeness he did not really possess.

They shared a moment, Emma taking in the cut of his suit, the gilt on his watch-chain, he smooth leather and gilt monogram of his traveling case, (SD, M.D.) and the sheen of his hat, everything about him the very picture of respectability and decorum - save for the color of the skin that wore it all, and her lips tightened a little, fully understanding. "Is that so?"

She turned back to the clerk with one of those cutting smiles any Southern lady worth the name can produce at a moment's notice, the kind that indicates whatever she is addressing is, in her valuable estimation, either dumber than dirt or hardly worth her notice, and leaned a little into the desk. "Doctor Diggs is a special friend of the family," she began, "and I would hate for his visit to Alexandria to be spoiled by a little thing like a miswritten name in the book. Do look again, will you?"

The clerk looked terrified, but he did as he was told, finally finding Diggs in the reservation log and producing, haltingly, the key for the room. "And the...charge, ma'am?"

"He'll get whatever rate Mr Stringfellow and I are receiving, of course," Emma said without dropping a beat. "Do get someone to see to these bags, won't you? We're required downstairs."

The clerk nodded, summoning a porter and ordering him upstairs, while Emma smiled and reminded him, once more, about the tea. "Shall we?" she asked, once she was sure the bags would not be mishandled or sent to the rubbish tip, indicating the way towards the dining room and the stairs that Sam remembered well ran down to the kitchen.

When they were out of sight of the front desk she seemed to deflate, a little, losing a little bit of her high- and-mighty look and smiling at him, this one infinitely warmer than the one she’d used at the desk. “Well, that ought to teach him.”

"Obliged to you, Miss - Mrs….Stringfellow."

She sighed, a little apologetic. "Don't thank me yet, Dr. Diggs. I wish I could promise you a pleasant stay, but somehow I doubt I could deliver it." She looked down at her hands. "I think you'll find they really are looking for you in the kitchen. There's been...an accident."

"Someone hurt?" Sam asked, immediately regretting that he hadn't brought his medical case with him.

She shook her head. "Rather more than that, I'm afraid. Silas Bullen's dead."

It wasn't a name he was expecting to hear. "Bullen? What was he -"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Emma offered, also clearly perplexed, "but I think it fair to say he wasn’t staying at the hotel and my sister certainly didn't invite him. My brother's mentioned once or twice that he still lived in town, but..." She shrugged. "What he was doing here I couldn't say. You seem to have done well for yourself," she offered, leading the way back down the stairs. "New York?"

"Philadelphia," Sam corrected, watching the dark head nod in affirmation. 

"And married, I expect," she asked, turning to look back up the stairs with a twinkle in her eye. “There’s a woman’s touch in the sheen on that hat.”

He looked down and smiled. She had brushed it before they’d left -  _ no need to go looking like paupers, _ she’d said. "Indeed. To Charlotte - Jenkins, as was. You might remember - the teacher here?" 

Emma smiled, nodding. "Yes! A wonderful woman - and a good match, I'm sure."

They had found the landing, and paused at the bottom of the steps, Sam's eyes growing re-accustomed to the relative gloom. It was brighter down here than he remembered - though the clean windows and new paint might have helped with that. It was coming back to him - and making him remember that he had not missed these rooms at all. 

"And Mr...Stringfellow?" Sam asked, trying to keep his face as natural as he could.  _ I was expecting it to be Hopkins - but maybe my memory's playing tricks. _

That, it seemed, was one thing Emma Green was not proud of - her smile never reached up to her eyes, and when she spoke, it was without the warmth and fondness with which she'd asked about Sam's life. "Frank was a sweetheart of mine, before the war. Was only natural we got married when he returned."  _ Now, that's a worn-out lie if I've ever heard one,  _ Sam thought to himself. "We live out West - Franklin County. He's a minister, with a small congregation. Any children?"

"Twins," Sam said, thinking, fondly, of two matched curly heads, two sets of brown and smiling eyes, begging to be accommodated on what was clearly only one set of shoulders. "And you?"

She shook her head, her lips compressed again into that anguished line. "We've ...not been blessed." He knew that face well - the same one Sam could remember on Charlotte's face, any time her friends asked, time and time again, if there was to be a happy announcement. But he could remember another face, too, in this very corridor, a woman he'd loved, in the way he had known love then, and a scowl that was trying to be a smile, answering a question about whether or not she was ill, hands clutched to her womb as though they might singlehandedly guard that secret, prevent that nightmare coming true.

Silas Bullen had been a part of that, too.

But there was little time for old memories - Jed Foster was in the door of the kitchen, a deal grayer than Sam remembered him but with the same penchant for flashy waistcoats, and friendly handshakes. He’d removed his own coat, his sleeves rolled to the elbows, and his hands showing recent signs of having been washed. This, Sam realized, would be work.

“Ah, Doctor Diggs. Thank you for coming. He’s...just through here.” Jed looked past Sam’s shoulder. “Hadn’t you better go upstairs, Miss - Mrs. Stringfellow? It’s...not a sight for ladies.”

“I daresay Mrs. Diggs is a lady, and she’s been party to it. Whatever it is, I’ve seen worse,” came Emma’s short reply, making Sam wonder what sort of life the Stringfellows were leading out in Franklin County, if a corpse in a kitchen was not cause for even a slight flutter of disgust. But it served enough for Jed (though he, too, looked as though he had some questions about Franklin County) and he let them both inside.

They were not the only people already in the kitchen - Charlotte hung in the background of the scene, her arm around a young woman with a bloody apron (not nearly bloody enough for what lay before them), alongside a man looking like the minstrel show version of a pirate who turned out, on closer examination, to be a much abused and older version of Doctor Hale. (A missing eye and a leg? What had the man been doing for the last ten years? Perhaps a pirate was not far shy.)

And, in the middle of it all - the corpse, slowly oozing underneath a wholly inadequate kitchen towel.

“A little out of your scope of practice, I’m sure,” Jed apologized. “But I thought the more eyes -”

Sam knelt down, balancing carefully on his toes, mindful of his shoes and the blood. “I’ve sat on one or two murder trials. I know the form.” He surveyed the scene, taking in the belt buckle, the state of the deceased’s clothes, the swath of blood leading back to the pantry. A pair of eyeglasses, sadly mangled, lay underneath a table, alongside what looked to be a loose button, thread trailing from its shank. The dead man’s? “Cause of death seems obvious - exsanguination, owing to…being gutted like a pig.” He looked around the body. “And the murder weapon?”

Jed shrugged. “It’s a kitchen. There’s a knife for everything - and plenty of dishwater it could have disappeared into to be washed with everything else.”

“Who would have wanted him dead?” Hale asked aloud.

“Him? Silas Bullen?” Jed couldn’t stop himself from scoffing. “Everyone who knew him, if he’s the same man he was ten years ago - and that does certainly seem to be the case.” His eyes lingered for a moment over the unceremoniously thrown dishrag, hinting at what the man’s last moments had been intent on - no different than during the war. “Though she’d have to have been strong as an ox, to cut - “

“She?” Hale interrupted Foster quickly (old habits, thought Sam to himself with an abbreviated smile.) “You think a  _ woman _ did this?”

“I think anyone capable of anything, Doctor Hale, especially when put upon. Unless,” Jed suggested with a solemnity that would have rivaled Solomon’s, “You’re going to suggest the former steward was looking for a different kind of company in the pantry with his drawers down.”

Hale blanched for a moment at the possibilities suggested by the phrase and quickly put it from his head. “Shouldn’t we call the police?”

“No!” The three men turned, almost as one, to Emma, surprised at the stringency of her response. “My brother’s in the midst of trying to sell the hotel, Doctor Foster,” Emma said quickly. “If there’s anything he’ll take less kindly to, it’s a whiff of scandal to ruin his plans. You said it yourself, Bullen had plenty of enemies. Will the world be worse off without him in it? There’s ...a kind of justice in it.”

“Mob justice,” Sam objected strongly. “Look, I’ve as much cause as anyone here to hate the man, but...do any of you want to spend the weekend with a murderer in your midst?”  _ You’re men of science _ , he wanted to say.  _ You’ll want to know only to say you’ve solved a puzzle no one else can solve.  _

_ Hell _ , he realized, looking from the corpse to his wife, looking down on him with a knowledgeable gaze, impatient and resigned, the look of a woman who knows what she is getting into and does not like it one bit. _ I’ve only been here five minutes and now I’m half-curious myself. _   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hail, hail, the gang's all here. Oh, poor Charlotte. Her husband is well and truly hooked.
> 
> After extensive discussion on the topic, I think we're going to keep our original order - so Jomiddlemarch has the baton! 
> 
> Okay - some questions to be answered in future chapters - 
> 
> Do they find anything else in the pantry (besides the button and the glasses near Bullen's body) that might indicate the identity of our killer?  
> Who might we be able to ask about why Bullen was in the hotel, and answer who he might have been meeting there?  
> Several characters are still incommunicado, though Matron has been corresponding with Anne, Jimmy has agreed to meet for dinner and Jane may well be with him. Has anyone else arrived at the hotel in the interim?  
> Do Frank and Henry have a chat after getting Squivers onto a couch somewhere? Compare notes on the rights of man, perhaps? (If this is indeed a thing, I need you all to know that Frank is very much of the Good Old Days persuasion and will not be taking kindly to his wife having allowed two black people to get rooms in the hotel. Literally no one else agrees with him on this.)  
> Will Anne and Mary succeed in getting rid of Eliza long enough to have a chat about life? Will Mary succeed in getting the truth out of Emma about why she married Frank?  
> Will Henry and Emma get A Moment? (Will it, as several of you have indicated a preference for, involve pushing Frank down some stairs?)


	8. Chapter 8

Jed’s hand at the small of her back was less helpful than her stick, but Mary liked it far better. It was easy to pretend it was merely affection, that if circumstances (an empty hallway, the seclusion of a carriage) permitted, it might become a more comprehensive embrace, even if one purely tender, without a hint of hunger. Since they had stepped foot at Mansion House Hotel, it had been what Aunt Agnes would call _a day of days_ and Mary longed for nothing more than a door to close firmly behind them. She would have preferred it to be the varnished double-leaf doors of their brownstone, but the door to their hotel room would do. 

It did. For the space of a breath, the time it took to look about. To realize—and remember.

“This won’t do,” Jedediah declared as they saw the tall windows overlooking the back garden where the dahlias and roses had been coaxed back to health, peach trees espaliered against the wall. Mary recalled when soldiers had loitered there, the air full of the scent of boiling laundry, lye and blood. She saw again the pattern moonlight made on the wide floorboards, how many shades of blue the blue room had held after midnight.

“Whyever not?” Mary asked, determined to be patient, to let him go on as he must. The journey had been hard for him as well and he had spent the past few hours in the company of a cooling corpse and the booming Cyclops Byron Hale, while she’d only had to take a glass of fine brown sherry with the woman who’d deserted him. And Anne, but Anne had become something more than a friend. An ally. A veteran of a War Jedediah had not fought.

“This was my room during the War, though they’ve hung a new paper on the walls,” he said, gesturing at the heavy serpentine designs. Someone at the hotel had known and knowing, had given them the key. “Those botanical prints are new and the Turkey rug. That handsome armchair where I had a desk. I wrote letters telling women their sons died just there.”

“And?” she asked, knowing that was not the crux of the matter.

“Mary, there’s only one bed.” It was mahogany, elegantly carved, covered in snowy linens. It was meant to hold them both but he said it would not do. She sighed.

“Jedediah—”

“I can talk to the clerk at the front desk, see if there’s a suite with a dressing room,” he said, as if they were both not fully aware there was no such room at Mansion House. “Or ask for a camp bed to be set up. That will suit me perfectly well,” he added quickly.

“No,” Mary said. Should she have said it weeks ago? Months ago? The time was measured in the Johnny’s cries, in the velvety pansies Elias and Daniel had picked from the flower bed, the mantle clock’s chime as distant as the Moon. 

“No,” she repeated. “You cannot. You cannot humiliate me that way.”

“Humiliate you?”

“Do you suppose any of the staff here are above gossip? Do you suppose it will not be spread about that Dr. Foster and his wife do not share a bed? Do you suppose Mrs. Byron Hale will maintain any degree of decorum and refrain from making impertinent comments?” Mary asked. Eliza’s eyes had gleamed like moonstones during the conversation Mary thought of as a poorly concealed interrogation and she had noticed how the other woman glanced at her wedding ring, the relative simplicity of her polonaise, its few rosettes and narrow pleated frills, her unmodish delicate garnet drop earrings. Every word Mrs. Hale had uttered had been designed as an arrow and Mary gathered she was ordinarily quite a Dian, unerring in her targets. She had left Alexandria early in the War, however; she had not known what Mary and Anne were made of. This new intelligence though, this she would crow over, louder than Alice Squivers’s prized peacocks.

“Evidently, in California, society is quite informal and anything may be bruited about. And for all that she’s another man’s wife, she remains quite… fascinated by you. Very willing to air her opinions about what it means to be Mrs. Jedediah Foster, what is required of a prominent physician’s wife. A lame bluestocking is quite a come-down for you, though she owned at least we haven’t a house-full of girls.”

“Mary,” Jed began, turning to face her. He’d loosened his tie and collar, but his eyes were bright. “Molly, you can’t be troubled by Eliza. By her nonsense. For God’s sake, she married Byron Hale! I’m only thinking of you, of your health, your rest, what’s needful.”

“I’ll sleep better with you beside me,” Mary said, taking a step closer. “Truly. I shan’t even mind if you snore a little.”

“I don’t snore,” Jed said reflexively. Mary smiled at him. “Molly, it’s not safe to be together—”

“Jedediah Foster, do you meant to tell me that a man of your age and stature, a professor at Harvard Medical School, a husband of twelve years and a father of three, a Unitarian, cannot simply sleep in a bed with his lawfully wedded wife without being overcome by his passions?”

“I wasn’t born a Unitarian,” Jed mumbled, a poor argument they both recognized as such.

“Jed, please. I know, I know you want to keep me safe, but I cannot, we cannot go on like this. We have to find a way and it seems this place is determined to make us find it.”

“Molly, you don’t know how it was. How it felt to come so close to losing you, knowing it was because of me, my desires—”

“ _Our_ desires. I miss you. Please. I don’t care about Eliza’s jibes, not really, nor that sly, simpering Alice Gre-Squivers, God help him, poor, overwrought Squivers, I only care about you. What happened was no one’s fault, Mrs. Ballard has said it plainly. You, Johnny, all the boys, you’re worth the risk to me. You must accept that. For I don’t see how we’re to get through this, why we came and now this…this ghastly fiasco of Mr. Bullen’s death, if we cannot rely on each other. If I cannot turn to you in the night, in the moonlight, and talk to you,” Mary said. She laid her hand on his forearm, knowing he would feel how she trembled. “If I cannot know you will take me in your arms. Unless you don’t want that—”

“Are you mad? Unless I don’t want you?” he said, for a moment as wild as he’d ever been when she was the Head Nurse and he the Chief Medical Officer. It was just a moment though, before he looked at her hand on his arm, and calmed, leading her over to sit on the bed. Then he knelt before her and began to unlace her boots, his hands deft and so welcome. “In contrast to what you once told me in this benighted place, you have beguiled me… and I’m thankful for it every day. Let me show you.”

* * *

“Mmmm, that’s nice,” Mary murmured, settling back against Jed, enjoying the soft golden light of the lamp, his hand idly tracing an unidentifiable pattern on her hip. He’d been recounting his observations of Bullen’s demise, his baritone voice low, relaxed, so different from the days they’d spent in his room during his withdrawal. Such much time had passed and yet, here they were again, with Silas Bullen once again fomenting chaos, though it did seem mean to hold the man responsible for his own slaughter. “So, there was no way whatsoever to determine the weapon that was used?”

“There was a basin full of cutlery soaking,” Jed reminded her. 

“You might take Leah aside tomorrow and ask her. You could always tell if I gave you Dr. Hale’s favorite scalpel instead of your own, just as soon as I laid it in your hand,” Mary said. “It was the subject of many a vociferous rant. I shouldn’t be surprised if Leah could tell you how every knife in that kitchen cuts. You might ask Charlotte actually. Leah will talk to her more readily and no one will think much of me conversing with Charlotte on the veranda. I’m still that interfering Yankee woman who makes a to-do about the freedmen.”

“Interfering?”

“I didn’t say I agreed with the assessment,” Mary laughed lightly. “Though it’s not terribly far off the mark. Speaking of which, you are certain that Bullen was in some degree _in flagrante_ of his own accord? For you said there was a bloody handprint at the waistband of his trousers and another at his knee and I cannot help thinking he would not be unfastening them with a gaping belly wound. And I wonder at the pattern of the blood on the walls and the floors you described. It strikes me someone wanted to create a very dramatic scene but I’m quite familiar with the way blood spatters on the walls in this building and I think some of what you saw must have be daubed on. Was it even Mr. Bullen’s blood? The shock of the sight would overwhelm most, as it seems to have done to Dr. Squivers, despite his years of experience in medical practice.”

“Well, it’s Squivers after all.” Mary felt Jed's slight shrug that accompanied the words. “It seems to me you ought to be conducting this investigation, Molly, if we are not to have the police or the return of the fearful Pinkerton and his thunderous Scottish burr,” Jed said. “You have asked far more, pardon me, incisive questions than occurred to me or even Samuel.”

“A compliment indeed!” Mary laughed again. “To take a page from your own book, I don’t see how I could manage with my stick. The spirit is willing, as they say, but as to the rest…”

“It’s your spirit that is wanted, your spirit and your logical mind. Though I’m glad you recognize for once I’m in the right and I shall remind you of it-- and frequently,” Jed said. She could not see his grin but she could hear it, feel how he held her closer. “We might settle you comfortably in the smaller sitting room. You always liked that one,” Jed said.

“You could hear the church bells through the window sometimes,” Mary replied.

“Then you still may. You might sit there and talk with various people, try to devise what in the Devil’s name is going on. Though there’s no shortage of people who would ill-wish Bullen,” Jed said.

“Yes, though enough to kill him? What reason has anyone to murder him—now?" Mary asked. It was tempting to believe it was simply an unknown enemy exacting vengeance, but Mary could not ignore the reunion of those time and circumstance had parted and then Bullen’s sudden, grotesque dispatch. However well she had once known them, she could not assume herself certain as to the secrets of their hearts, the consequence of the years.

“You mean, as compared to the War when he was known for his violence and theft and general despicable knavery? A leopard cannot change its spots, Molly. Nor could Bullen his vices, plural. That moral metamorphosis he had after his transfusion cannot have lasted, no matter what Henry Hopkins wanted to believe. Henry’s always been such an idealist.”

“But it’s been ten years. There’s something else, something I can’t put my finger on, the murder and the letters, so many letters, some hidden device and someone devising,” Mary mused, a little drowsy. Jed heard it and reached over to turn the lamp down, leaving them with what dim moonlight came through the parted velvet drapes. 

“Time to sleep, my sweet Molly. Knit up that ravell’d sleeve and see what comes clear in the morning light,” he said, pushing back a curl that had come loose from her night-plait, dropping a kiss on her bared shoulder. The endearment, his fond tone, his slightly mangled quotation all made her smile. And think of witches and spells, blood that would not be washed clean, a woman’s rough voice. Of plans laid and gambits…

* * *

“Thank you for coming with me Anne,” Mary said. 

“I hardly think Jed would have let you undertake this errand alone, no matter what was demanded, and I was in much the same situation,” Anne answered, brisk where she had once been brusque. She wore a fetching toque tipped over one eye, coral cameo necklace with matching bracelet, and her tasseled, fringed and be-ribboned bustle, the height of fashion, but all Mary saw was the woman who’d once labored with her over dying boys, her hands quicker than a hummingbird’s wings. When the hospital had been at its worst, then Anne had left aside any spite or conceit; it had been the beginning of their friendship but not the end. 

“I admit, I’m unsure of what we’ll encounter. Nothing has gone as I expected, not least of which was being accompanied by ‘Miss Hastings’ instead of your more appropriate title, Mrs. Frederick Morris,” Mary said. “Since that letter arrived—”

“And here you are, you two fine ladies. Here you are on my very doorstep.” The voice was the same, the keen dark eyes. Mary suddenly heard Dr. Summer’s haunting fiddle, a man’s tenor singing again _Oh, Peggy Gordon, you are my darling…_

“Matron—” Mary began.

“Past time for that, dear. Call me Bridget and come in. Come in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to incorporate a number of call-backs to the show in this chapter to underscore the fact they are in a hotel they are all deeply familiar with as a hospital. I also had a grand old time looking at Victorian fashions in jewelry, clothing, millinery and footwear. Jed quotes Macbeth, as I'm sure you are all aware, and I tried to bring back the chess reference as well as my preferred fanon nickname for Mary used by Jed.
> 
> Mrs. Ballard is the midwife I have used in fanfic before, in honor of Martha Ballard: Martha Moore Ballard (1735 – May 1812) was an American midwife and healer. Unusually for the time, Ballard kept a diary with thousands of entries over nearly three decades, which has provided historians with invaluable insight into frontier-women's lives. Ballard was made famous by the publication of A Midwife's Tale: The Life of Martha Ballard based on her diary, 1785–1812 by historian Laurel Thatcher Ulrich in 1990.
> 
> I spent a lot of time trying to find an appropriate New Yorker for Anne Hastings (a doctor at Roosevelt Hospital was my preference but not someone terribly famous; I did consider John Metcalfe for a while...) before I punted and gave her Frederick Morris as a spouse, provenance and history indeterminate except for the fact that he's presumably dead.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry and Frank have a moment, Emma has a terrible dinner, and Charlotte surprises Samuel with their evening plans.

As they carried Doctor Percival Squivers, Esteemed Lecturer and Researcher at Georgetown and former Union Major, up the stairs, Henry thought it would have been easier if he could have slung the man over his shoulder and walked up the stairs alone rather than negotiating the steps with the weight of half a man clenched in his arms while Mr. Stringfellow walked at a speed seemingly intent on demonstrating his lack of a struggle with the burden they hauled. 

Alice showed them where to lay her husband, mentioned something about tea, and left Frank and Henry over his prone body, thanking them over her shoulder. Frank sighed.

“Never thought I'd be doing her bidding again.” Frank drew back from the bed, hands on his hips while Henry adjusted the pillow and tried to make Dr. Squivers more comfortable. The man let out a moan but remained unconscious. 

Henry wondered which room they were in. It was small, and from the few accoutrements - a delicate bottle of almond cream, a neatly folded scarf- it seemed that a woman was staying here. “I didn’t expect I’d hear someone declare Silas Bullen dead again.”

Frank walked back to the doorway but paused at Henry’s words. “Where were you when it happened, Chaplain Hopkins?”

Henry looked up from his position by the bed, and it was like being back at the bedside of a wounded soldier, an overwrought comrade of the injured making demands of him that were ridiculous or at the very least unnecessary.

“I don’t know. I don’t know when it happened.”

“Well, I know that you’re a likely murderer. You’ve already done it once before, and you were no more than a child. What more could you have grown to do as a man?”

Henry recoiled, his hand reaching for his Bible to anchor himself. “Plenty that I regret. Emma told you?”

“No, Tom did. And I’ll appreciate you calling my wife by her married name. Mrs. Stringfellow.”

Henry nodded, eyes still on Frank. He wondered what else Frank knew of him - of a body wrestled to death in a river, his lips on those of the current Mrs. Stringfellow, the tears in her eyes as he told her he was leaving to join the 120th New York Infantry as a field chaplain.

As if he could read the thoughts skating across Henry’s mind, Frank spat out questions, his eyes narrowed. “And do you regret kissing my wife? For making her think you cared?”

Henry kept his voice calm and his face neutral as he answered. “Do you regret caring for her?”

***

Emma remembered meals during the war – rhubarb for breakfast at the family home, salted beef and chicory coffee at the hospital. The meal with her mother, brother, husband, and sister was worse. It wasn’t for any lack of delectable food. Her mother had included two soups and a fish course before the chicken entrée, preceded by sorbet to cleanse the palate, and Emma navigated the formal place setting as if she and Frank had them daily in their home. The food was delicious. It was the conversation which turned her stomach.

“Oh he won’t bother anyone there, no guests will be put out. I had Frank and Henry put him in the serving maid’s room, the mattress even has metal springs! Henry’s staying with him to keep watch.” Alice took a sip of her tea, either unaware or unbothered that perhaps it would be obtrusive to the maid to find the husband of a Green on her bed, unconscious. “I’m sure Henry felt right at home. Praying over an injured man in the hotel!”

Knowing that Henry had traveled so far only to sit in a chair all night long, looking after the nervous husband of her very healthy and capable sister caused Emma to speak; something she had trained herself not to do when Frank’s moods turned sour, and his mood had certainly been sour ever since carrying Squivers upstairs.

“Alice, the man came for a reunion before you sell the place, not to do your bidding!”

“Certainly not, he came to do your bidding, Emma.”

Frank’s scoff and Emma’s protest were met with a dismissive wave from Alice.

“I told them all to come because you were in great need, Emma. And it’s true. You are destitute. You need this hotel to sell. And with them all here, we will host a reception for Rear Admiral Hale, Supervising Surgeon General of the United States Marine Hospital Service. He was most eager to come when I told him we would host an event in his honor to welcome him back to the coast, if he would be certain to invite his superiors and colleagues. And I could just about hear his delight through the telegraph. I didn’t tell him about how you’ve been brought low; a reception in his honor was quite enough incentive.”

Emma stood, throwing her napkin on the table. “Our letter said Jimmy wanted to meet with us. And that several were coming back for a reunion. Not that you engineered a reunion to advance the interests of the hotel sale and to humiliate me.”

Frank laughed bitterly and leaned back in his chair. “I sure hope you have a plan for selling this hotel once news of the murder gets out.”

Mrs. Green turned white as the pristine tablecloth and dropped her fork to grip it. “Murder?”

Jimmy’s voice shook “At the hotel?”

Alice turned to her, dismissing her worry with a wave of her hand. “Oh, Mother, it’s nothing, just that old pest Bullen who was always trying to skulk about. It’s nothing to do with any of us. Surely it was one of the kitchen maids.”

At Frank’s huff of agreement, Emma kept her tone sweet but her eyes glinted fury. “I wouldn’t be so sure you will avoid suspicion yourself. You tried to kill the man twice. Not to mention the death you've been party to in Franklin County. You're supposed to be shepherding your flock, not killing it. Moving men to mercy - not hate. What kind of man are you?”

Frank’s face turned into a snarl. “I don't kill our own, and I know my worth is far above the likes of the servants you so seem to enjoy.”

It was the last statement she made before leaving the dining room in favor of the bedroom she still thought of as hers though her mother had redecorated it several times over. Emma hadn’t looked to her mother to see her reaction, the disapproving face that would have more likely hated Emma’s outburst than the truth spoken so plainly about her son-in-law.

In her bed, Emma’s fingers ran over the matelassé coverlet, tracing the raised patterns of flowers and vines, the shame creeping up on her even now as she recalled the evening’s events. She wished she could switch places with Percival Squivers. And she hoped her husband would spend the night in their room reserved at the hotel. Away from this bed, away from her, and if it meant he was closer to a killer, so be it. She slept with a killer every night.

***

Charlotte handed Leah one of the dresses from her luggage, a nice piece that would fit her well with some minor adjustments. It was a good thing she had brought more clothing than she needed. She knew Mr. Foster could be counted on to fulfill his promise to buy new dresses, if only because she’d hold him to it, but it wasn’t a promise he could fulfill that night.

“Who do you think could have done it, Leah? Did you see anything that you couldn’t say among everyone else?” Charlotte worked on the dress fastenings on Leah’s back and then turned so Leah could do the same for her. The bloodied dresses made a pile on the floor and Charlotte sighed to see the waste of such lovely fabric ruined by blood. Was there no end to the havoc this place would wreak on her, body and soul?

“I really don’t know. The Greens didn't like him coming around, but I don’t know that they would get their hands dirty.”

Charlotte laughed. “Hmmm. I can just imagine. Mrs. Green in the kitchen with a knife.”

Leah joined her laughter, both of them turning a bit frantic with it after the gruesome events of the day. “Mrs. Green doesn’t know how to use any of the kitchen knives. She may not even know where the kitchens are! That woman’s never been in my kitchen. Though that wouldn’t stop her from telling us what to do. And she’s never used a knife for anything more than buttering a biscuit.”

Samuel came in to the sound of their laughter and drew Charlotte close, wiping the tears of it from her face. “What’s this?”

“Oh, we’re just trying to play sleuth. I have a fun night planned for you. Leah is staying with us because a man who fainted dead away is in her room. And we get to spend a lovely evening by the fire, burning our bloodied dresses so no one can place us at the scene of the actual dead body.”

“What a lovely hotel we’re staying in here. Our very own fireplace to enjoy!” Samuel laughed.

Though she knew it might have made more sense to cry, to scream, to raise an angry fist in the air at Bullen, at the clerk, at the town of Alexandria, at the whole of the Union, she answered through gasping laughter, “Perhaps we should have stayed with Belinda and George after all!”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne and Mary catch up with an old friend, who has some information to share. But is there someone who doesn't want them digging deeper?

“Come in, come in.”

As Anne crossed the threshold, she looked over her shoulder at the street behind them. There was no one about, and yet Anne couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched. A shiver crawled up her spine, and she quickly shook herself as she followed Mary inside.  _ Don’t be daft, Anne. There’s nothing there. _

Still, the uneasy feeling remained, even once the door was shut tight behind them.

It was dark inside the house and Anne blinked several times, trying to adjust to the dimness in contrast to the bright Alexandrian sun. The curtains were drawn tight, and Mary and Anne exchanged as much of a confused look as they could manage.

“Ah, sorry about that. These old eyes, they’re not what they used to be. It hardly seems worth it to open the drapes. Maggie!” The matron called out loudly and a figure appeared in the dimness, slight and scrawny and with a wild head of hair that Anne could just make out among the gloom. “Open the drapes up for my guests, there’s a good lass.” 

\

The shadowy girl bobbed a quick, almost playful curtsy in the dark, one that made Anne think that it was more of a game between the girl and her mistress than any sort of formality. She quickly did as she was told, opening the curtains with a snap that made Anne jump. The death of Silas Bullen, it seemed, had made her far more sensitive to even the most mundane of noises. The bright light stung her eyes, but given all that had happened--a man gutted, a killer wandering in their midst, Anne was grateful for the light. Not that she had anything to fear in this house--she knew that. But still, she was happy now that she could see properly.

The sunlight revealed a clean, modest entryway with a parlor beyond. The girl who had opened the curtains was, as Anne had guessed, thin as a rail and probably no older than fourteen, with a halo of wild red curls and pale skin dotted with freckles. Another girl, similarly clad in the garb of a domestic, stood near the parlor entrance with her hands folded primly before her. This one was older than the first, taller, with deep ebony skin and huge, curious eyes. For a moment, Anne felt a glimmer of recognition as she looked at the child, but she shook her head and forced herself back to the present moment. Anne wondered how the years had treated Bridget well enough to afford to keep not one, but two hired girls with her. Their correspondence had never mentioned such things.

In the middle of it all stood Bridget Brannan herself. She was dressed more or less the same as she had during the war--fashion being not something she would deign to concern herself with, Anne supposed. There were more lines around that familiar face, and her eyes were slightly cloudy with age, although Anne didn’t believe for a moment that the woman wasn’t still as sharp as ever, no matter what Bridget herself might say. “There you are,” Bridget said warmly, and held out her arms. “It’s so good to see you both.”

Anne stepped forward first, grasping Bridget’s shoulders and accepting a kiss on each cheek. The older woman’s lips were dry and cool against her skin. “It’s been too long, my dear,” Bridget whispered in her ear. “My dear, dear girl.” She released Anne and offered the same greeting to Mary, who seemed to hesitate. Gently, but with an air that suggested it was second nature even though it was not, Anne reached out to take Mary’s stick from her so that she could embrace Bridget unencumbered. Wanting to give them a moment, Anne turned from the embrace and surveyed the room. The house was spotlessly clean, comfortable with few adornments--Anne would have expected nothing less--and nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Anne supposed she was just jumping at shadows again.  _ Get a bloody grip on yourself, Hastings. _

“Come, let’s sit down. We’ve much to catch up on. This way--” Anne quickly handed the stick back to Mary, and kept a hand on her elbow to steady her as she led them into the parlor. Mary gave Anne a grateful look, and Anne was happy that she did not protest the assistance. Perhaps, the Boston baroness had finally learned that she did not have to shoulder everything on her own. 

“Hattie, the tea, if you would, lass,” the matron added over her shoulder.

The second servant nodded and glided out of the room with a swish of skirts and a “Yes, Mrs. B.” She reappeared a few moments later carrying a tray laden with cups, saucers, and a steaming teapot. She set it down but did not stay to serve it. That, Bridget did herself, offering a cup first to Mary and then to Anne before settling in to prepare her own. Anne carefully stirred milk into her teacup, feeling Mary’s eyes on her, but for once, Anne Hastings did not have the first word. 

“Ten years, it’s been, has it?” Bridget mused. Anne was slightly caught off-guard--Bridget knew exactly how long it had been since they had all been in the same room together, and small talk was not her style.

“Yes, ten years. Rather hard to believe, isn’t it?”

“Are you still in Boston, then, Mrs. Foster?”

Mary nodded and began to fill Bridget in on the goings-on of the last ten years--Doctor Foster’s work, her work, their three boys. Anne only half-listened. She was not jealous of her friend’s life, not exactly, but she couldn’t help but draw comparisons between Mary’s circumstances and those that Anne had chosen for herself. Children, of course, had never been in the cards for Anne--she had known that even during the war. She hadn’t had many causes to regret that. As for everything else--her marriage and what had preceded it, her subsequent widowhood...Anne wasn’t sure what Mary would make of it. She wished there could be a chance for her and Mary to properly catch up, but now that there was the spectre of this murder investigation hanging over them, she highly doubted that would be the case.  _ Damn that ghastly steward. If there’s any justice at all, he’s rotting in hell where he belongs. _

Bridget let Mary do most of the talking, nodding every once in a while and interrupting with a question or two. Anne’s mind wandered as she sipped her tea, looking at the portraits on the mantle. There was the group photo that had been taken when a photographer had visited Mansion House, large and prominently displayed. It was next to a tintype of Declan in his uniform, which Anne pointedly did not look at--

“Anne?”

Mary’s hand on her shoulder brought Anne back to the present. “Terribly sorry. Lost in my own world. What was that?”

“I asked how you were,  _ Miss Hastings _ ,” Bridget said pointedly. “Or should I say Mrs. Morris? I can never get my head around which one you’re going by now.”

“Yes, why--” Mary began, but Bridget cut her off with a little chuckle.

“I expect it’s because she feels guilty, isn’t it? Feels guilty for all of it, the name and the fortune even though you have no reason for any of it.” She leaned closer to Mary and smiled. “ _ Beautiful  _ wedding, it was. The best day they could have asked for. You should have been there.”

“I couldn’t, I’d just had--”

“Yes, the first of the nippers, I know. Still, you missed a good one. And that sweet sister of his, what was her name?”

“Louisa,” Anne said crisply. “Which you know quite well, Bridget. Your doddering old woman act might fool others in this backwater town, but it won’t fool us, so I suggest you quit while you’re ahead.” 

Mary looked aghast, but Bridget only laughed. “Haven’t changed a bit, even now, I see. You’ll have to forgive me. You get so used to playing a part sometimes, it can be hard to stop.”

“I know that,” Anne said simply. “And if you must know, I use both names interchangeably. I rather thought that if I showed up calling myself ‘Mrs. Frederick Morris’, half of that lot wouldn’t know who I am.”

“No one could forget you, Anne,” Mary murmured, and Anne didn’t know why, but she was glad for it. 

“No, let’s get down to brass tacks. You came to see me for a reason, and it wasn’t just to tell me about every detail of the last ten years. So let’s have out with it.”

The two younger women exchanged a look, not knowing where to begin. Bridget’s keen gaze landed on Anne. “So you got my letter, then.”

Anne set down her teacup--it was empty anyway. “Of course I did. And I did as you asked, didn’t I? I wrote to Mary immediately. We’re both here. And with far more questions than we have answers, I might add.”

Bridget nodded, sipping her tea. “Sorry to be so cryptic. One never knows exactly who is handling one’s correspondence, after all.”

Anne had to resist the urge to roll her eyes. “The war is over, dear Bridget.”

“Is it? Is it really? Some in this town--in this state--are not so sure about that, even now. I would say your little Emma’s husband perhaps most of all.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Let’s just say I don’t think dear Mrs. Stringfellow knows where her husband is some nights. Or perhaps she  _ does _ know exactly where he is and what he gets up to, and that’s her problem.”

“Bridget, please,” Mary interjected. “Enough talking in riddles. We came for your assistance. Silas Bullen is dead.”

“Yes, I  _ know _ that, Mrs. Foster.”

Mary’s eyes widened, and Anne had to admit she was taken aback as well. “Knew that we’ve come to you for help?” Anne asked. “Or knew that he is dead?”

“Both, naturally.” Bridget Brannan looked like the cat that had gotten the cream.

“But--how?” Mary sputtered.

Bridget only laughed, tapping the side of her nose knowingly with one finger. Anne let out a little snort. There had been rumors, during the war, of Matron possessing some kind of supernatural abilities, but Anne was a firm skeptic and there had always been some kind of logical explanation for all of it. Bridget herself had never confirmed the rumors, but she had never discouraged them, either. Anne guessed that the true reason that she already knew about Bullen’s death was much more earthly, and had to do with the two teenage girls she could hear currently speaking in hushed and hurried tones in the kitchen. Surely one of them knew someone in the Mansion House kitchens, and word had already gotten out.

Mary bit her lip and sighed. “We’re attempting to make...some inquiries. To try to understand how something like this could happen. Miss Green--Mrs Stringfellow, I mean--has been reluctant to bring in the authorities.”

“Well, I can’t say that I blame the girl. The family needs that hotel to sell and the last thing they need is another scandal.”

_ “Another _ scandal, Bridget?” Anne asked.

Bridget nodded. “That family seems to attract more trouble than an angry hive of bees. The two of you went north, but those of us who stayed here saw it. First the Green family were seen as traitors--for allowing the hotel to become a Union hospital, not that they had much choice. For Junior signing the loyalty oath on behalf of his dear Papa. Then the war ends and suddenly the Greens, by nature of having signed the oath already, are in the good graces of the Union again, but still seen as pariahs by the “true Confederates” down here. Took ages for some of the locals to trust them again. I saw more carpetbaggers come in and out of those doors than you can possibly imagine, in the early days. Few other hotels would rent to them, and Mansion House needed their greenbacks, so they let them in. No one else would come to stay for the first...oh, a year or two, at least. Then the youngest missie marries that overgrown child in doctor’s clothes and gets it in her head to make the place fashionable again. She married a Union man, but she’s the very image of a Southern Belle, and she’s still trying to play both sides. She poured money into that place, hosted teas, society fundraisers, dances--and some more nefarious meetings as well, or so they say. Whatever she did, however she did it, it worked. It took years of work and manipulation to build up the reputation of the hotel to such a place where they could even think about selling it. To bring in the coppers would risk undoing all that progress. Not to mention, could bring our dear old friend Pinkerton sniffing around again.”

“Pinkerton?” Mary asked, frowning. “Isn’t he...out west somewhere? Or was it down in the Caribbean--”

Bridget waved a hand. “If not him, then one of his men. They’re all trained in his methods. I tell you, he never gave up on his suspicions about that family.”

“So we’ve established why the Greens would want to keep this quiet,” Anne began, trying to get the discussion back on track. “But what about Bullen? Who might want him dead?”

“Take your pick, my dear. Half the men in this town have reason to want that man six feet under. He’s cheated a good portion of them and owes money to the rest. He plays everyone like a fiddle, Northerner, Southerner, Union, Confederate, freedman, carpetbagger, you name it. He has no loyalty to anybody but himself. The only reason he’s not in jail already is he’s too crafty to get caught. He’s like a rat--every time you think you’ve got rid of him, he only comes back bringing more filth inside with him. No, dearies, the question isn’t who would want Silas Bullen dead. The question is who wanted him dead the  _ most. _ ” 

“And then there’s the matter of the reunion,” Mary added. “And the ceremony for Doctor--Rear Admiral Hale.”

“An apt title if ever there was one, and no mistake,” Bridget muttered, reaching into her pocket to pull out her pipe. 

“You invited Anne. Anne invited me. The rest of the guests this weekend, it seems, are actually here for a reception in honor of Byron Hale’s promotion. Eliz--Mrs. Hale told me about it.” Mary’s eyes did not leave her teacup as she spoke. “It’s apparently going to be quite the big to-do. And from what I’ve been able to gather, it was Mrs Squivers who sent out most of those invitations--”

“Mrs Squivers! Ha!” Bridget burst out. “That little preening thing is about as much of a mastermind, as--”

“We don’t know for sure who invited the Diggs,” Anne reminded Mary. “I find it very hard to believe that it was Alice Squivers. She certainly invited the Hales and the Stringfellows, but I feel as if we’re missing a critical piece of information here.”

“It’s like one of my boys’ puzzles, only we don’t have all the pieces,” Mary agreed. Anne sighed and leaned back in her chair. As she did so, she caught sight of the two servant girls leaning against the doorjamb, clearly listening. Anne caught the eyes of one of them, and she vanished around the corner, tugging the other with her.

“Had Bullen been having dealings with anyone new?” Anne asked, a theory striking her. “Anyone out of the ordinary? Perhaps someone is taking advantage of the fact that so many old faces are coming back to Mansion House. Maybe this is a new rival who’s trying to pin the man’s death on an old foe. Someone who decided to seize the opportunity when there are so many who could potentially take the fall.”

“Ah, there’s an idea,” Bridget said, puffing on her pipe. “Let me see. I did notice him talking to someone new at the market the other day. I couldn’t see his face very well, but from the looks of the two of them, it wasn’t a particularly good conversation. Bullen looked rather sick to his stomach, I thought, and--”

The next thing Anne heard was a terrific crash of broken glass. One of the kitchen girls screamed. “Mrs. B! Mrs. B! Oh, not again!”

“Get down, for God’s sake, get down!” Bridget ordered. 

Anne grabbed hold of Mary’s shoulders and pushed both of them off the settee as gently as she could manage. “What the bloody hell is that?” she cried out, but Bridget was already on the move, pulling something out from the folds of her dress. “Oh, Christ! Bridget Brannan, is that a  _ gun? _ ”

One of the girls in the kitchen was crying. Anne would put money on the redhead. Anne looked over her shoulder, still keeping her hold on Mary. From the corner of her eye, she could see Bridget creeping along the entryway, her pistol at the ready. She picked her way gingerly through the mess of broken glass along the floor. Mary was breathing heavily in Anne’s ear and Anne rubbed her back gently, trying to calm them both. She could feel her own heart hammering in her chest. She thought of earlier, how she had been so convinced that they were being watched. Suddenly, her worries didn’t seem so silly any longer.

“You know, I’m beginning to think coming here wasn’t the best idea,” Mary mumbled, and Anne had to laugh.

“You can come out now,” Bridget announced. “Whoever’s done it is gone, the devil.” There was a clatter as she tossed her pistol onto the front table. Anne stood up gingerly, then reached both hands down to Mary to help her to her feet. 

“Whoever’s done _what?_ ” Anne demanded, but as she looked in Bridget’s direction, the scene spoke for itself. The entryway was covered in broken glass, which crunched beneath Bridget’s feet. In her hand, she held a broken half of a brick that looked unsettlingly like the bricks that adored the facade of Mansion House. She waved it in Anne’s direction. 

“Came straight through the window,” she explained, her accent  thicker than usual. “Looks like someone’s none too happy that you two are snooping around.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to tortoiseshells, fericita, and Mercurygray for being my betas for this chapter!!
> 
> A few notes:
> 
> Allan Pinkerton (yes, that Pinkerton) gets a mention in this chapter. As Mary says, after the war he did go west with his agency, mostly to help track down bank robbers such as the Reno Gang, and also Jesse James, although his failure to capture James led to the railroad companies cutting financial support for Pinkerton and was considered his most famous public failure. In 1872, Pinkerton was hired by the Spanish government to help put down a rebellion in Cuba that would have outlawed slavery, although Pinkerton claimed not to know that part. I'm not exactly sure how much of that information Mary would have known, but I expect she keeps very, very up to date on all current events and the Fosters have many newspapers delivered to their home daily.
> 
> Bridget Brannan's two servants, Hattie and Maggie, are a former contraband slave and an Irish immigrant, respectively, and characters that I invented. Hattie, I've written about before--she was known as "Baby Hattie" in a Christmas fic I wrote about the contraband camp. If she was a toddler in 1862, she'd be about sixteen now. This is also why she looks familiar to Anne--she actually has seen her before. As for Maggie, Irish immigrants often faced challenges upon arriving in America--anti-immigrant sentiments were quite high during this time. As an Irish immigrant herself, I expect Bridget would want to help her out.
> 
> Any other historical errors are all my own!
> 
> \------------  
> For my fellow writers...
> 
> Something that Fericita and I discussed while doing edits: Mary is a former baroness, and Anne is a wealthy widow. Alice is hell-bent on making sure the sale goes through and the hotel gains prestige. Would she have been able to resist inviting two such individuals, Yankee or not? Would her desire for money overcome everything else? What I'm saying is...is it possible that Anne and Mary each received TWO letters? 
> 
> Some other considerations: Bridget seems to have done well for herself since the war. How is she supporting herself? A kind benefactor? Good luck? Playing the stock market? *laughs in Panic of 1873*
> 
> How does Bridget know so much about the goings-on of Mansion House?
> 
> I can't wait to find out!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mrs. Stringfellow meets Doctor Foster and the former Reverend Hopkins at breakfast, and the evidence is gone over.

Emma Stringfellow resigned herself to wakefulness sometime before dawn, throwing back the quilt and groping her way through the gloom. She’d undressed hastily the night before – casting her bustle over the delicate little dressing table seat, her bodice in the corner, her best slippers in opposite corners, corset God-knew-where. She ought to have cleaned up after herself, for she’d never have made such a mess in Franklin County, but that (Emma supposed) was precisely why she hadn’t. Spite, anger – _Lord_ , it might have made her a petulant child again, but it felt good to express those things!

It _did_ make dressing in the dark a sight harder, though.

She hadn’t slept well, when she did – a new bed (it wasn’t new, but it was so different from the last ten years that it might as well have been) and all the events of the day before, and her fears chased each other around her room through the night. She’d seen awful things in her life, and a man – someone she loathed with every fiber of her being – gutted like a fish wouldn’t even make the first page in her book of horrors; it was what that meant, could mean. Was it terrible to feel vindicated by a man’s death? Emma ran her fingers over the many-times-mended lace, the worn-grey cotton of her corset cover, rolling those feelings around her mind like brandy in a fat-bellied glass. Bullen, gone! 

Perhaps the feeling wasn’t terribly Christian of her, although her step was just as light from the need to sneak as from Bullen’s overdue end. The unseasonable cold bit through her mantle as soon as she slipped out the door of her father’s house, following the same path she’d taken so many times those years before. She didn’t have a plan, only a conviction that there was little in the world she wanted less than breakfast with her mother, and with some rest behind her she wanted to think – and here, in Alexandria, she could wander without much suspicion. 

Alice’s news, that required careful consideration – careful, because it could mean much, and because its implications felt dangerous. Alice had used her as – as bait? And it had worked?

Emma wanted to reject the idea outright! She’d heard almost nothing from her former friends in the ten years since the dissolution of the Hospital – she’d received one letter, maybe two? And how had that been a surprise? They’d gone to Franklin County to be forgotten; she’d told herself time and again over the years that she had no right to complain that what had been expected had come to pass. That was her fault, for wanting to believe Frank had reformed, for being sought out and charmed and told _she was needed_ , for being so easily seduced by a long-gone soldier coming back to her with a sad smile and an apology for leaving her behind. Her family didn’t want her, her friends were gone, and Frank Stringfellow was promising all he wanted was to beat his sword into the proverbial plowshare.

 _Enough_ , she told herself. She had been worse than a fool, but that was not the matter at hand.

Bullen was dead, and under any circumstances but these, she’d have thought it an unqualified good: one less monster in a world full of them. She had been party to so much injustice in her whole life – perhaps (she thought with a sour little twist of her stomach that might have been hunger instead), _that_ had turned her senses around more than a little. Emma looked around herself, quickly, noting she was straying close to the riverfront. Better avoid that, for her dress’s sake. She could afford a blot or two on her reputation, but even a bolt of cheap printed cotton was out of the question at present.

Unless – _the sale_. Alice meant to throw a party, gathering the illustrious into the ballroom to cast their light on the walls. Her sister had her acquaintances, Emma was sure – perhaps there’d even be a senator – but that was evidently not enough. Alexandria was too close to Washington City, Emma suspected, for Alice to only stock her guests with her kind of people; she’d have to lean on the Hotel’s Union past, and make a display of reconciliation. A clutch of prominent Union physicians and notables, ardent abolitionists among them – _how far_ , the guest list seemed to say, we Greens have come. No hard feelings. Just business.

But Dr. Foster, Nurse Mary, H- Reverend Hopkins surely knew Alice too well for that, or knew what Emma had been ( _had?_ ), so some inducement was needed. Could they have been tempted here, not just with the promise of reunion, but with the idea of helping her? What could Alice have possibly said that would make them remember her, want to help her? Spun some ridiculous yarn about her and Frank’s virtuous poverty in the thin-soiled foothills? 

What horseshit. 

Did they know what happened in Franklin County? Did they even know what her percentage of the sale would mean? Virginia wasn’t like Massachusetts – and wherever Reverend Hopkins had been. Emma had _nothing_ , was _nothing_ in the eyes of the law; every cent of her portion would be Frank’s. She wanted money, as ugly as it was to say, and she’d been reminded how badly yesterday: the way her turned skirt made observers sneer, the hotel’s plush carpets, even the heft and promise of _Godey’s_. Her head had been turned – _again_ – by the thought of a little luxury, but since the evening before she’d had enough time to think about what Frank would do with her share; she liked the idea of those thousands in Frank’s hands as much as she liked the heavy patent revolver he brandished. She’d seen what violence could do – money’d do the same, only in a more genteel fashion.

So. Perhaps letting the news break wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, whatever she’d said in the kitchen yesterday.

And therein lay the other problem: not the kitchen, but the hotel’s staff – and Doctor and Mrs. Diggs. Did Emma really believe for a moment that the murder wouldn’t be pinned on them, if brought to light unresolved? Alice said as much, and nothing in the decades of her life in Virginia could convince Emma otherwise. Without a solution – without a culprit – the sale _might_ not go through, but same old Virginian justice _would_ play out in an Alexandria court. 

They need a solution, an answer, then – and Emma wanted a way to keep Frank away from the profits of any sale. She kept walking for some time, until the sun was truly up, and while she had no answers, she was famished and needed to change out of her good dress.

* * *

Jed caught sight of a somberly-dressed Emma Stringfellow across the room, moving like a ghost.

That was not, he noted with something between chagrin and amusement, precisely correct. Jed saw his breakfast companion brace himself, like a man under the knife, and pretty swiftly deduced that Mrs. Stringfellow must have finally appeared. 

It was later in the morning than one would have expected, but since many things in Alexandria insisted on being at once familiar and unwelcome, Jed couldn’t say he was surprised. Before Mary had gone with Anne ( _Mrs. Morris_!) to visit with Bridget Brannan, she’d asked Jed to speak with the Reverend Stringfellow, and ask after Emma – if they intended to get to the bottom of this, were they not in need of all the help that could be mustered? She had been a trustworthy nurse and friend, and her aid would certainly be required. Stringfellow, though, had bristled at the question. Clearly thinking it presumption, he had smoothly replied that she’d gone ahead to breakfast with her mother and siblings, and he was heading that way.

 _So much for her husband_ , Jed thought, gesturing politely for Emma Stringfellow to join them. 

“I shouldn’t like to impose,” she demurred, having exchanged greetings, “My husband’s gone out to call on friends; if I hadn’t been so tired, I should have joined him.”

It would have been rude to call her a liar, so Jed let it remain there. “No imposition at all. Please, sit.”

She hesitated, darting a sideways glance at Henry, who repeated the invitation. That seemed to satisfy, and Mrs. Stringfellow perched on a chair so daintily it was almost imperceptible how ready she was to spring up and flee.

Believing that things of great importance shouldn’t be undertaken on an empty stomach, if possible, they spoke politely about their travels and other meaningless things until their plates could be brought and cleared, and more coffee offered. Jed hadn’t had much opportunity to speak with the one-time Emma Green in all the confusion and worry of yesterday’s murder, and took the time to observe her now: gray at the temples, her cheeks a little hollowed, callouses visible on the pads of her fingers. A little tetchily, he thought he was in no position to make merry about the signs of aging in others, but the years had not been kind to the former belle. Jed caught a glance of a white mark across her palm, which she hid as soon as he noticed. _There_ – at least that pridefulness was recognizably _Emma Green_ , even if the rest of her was altered.

What his friend made of this transformation, he could hazard a guess, though Henry was doing his best impression of the Old Man of the Mountain. Since Mary had spotted him across a station platform in July ‘65, looking like an unburied corpse, Henry Hopkins would reminisce fondly of their time at the Hospital – having heard him speak, so late one night it might have been morning, of what he saw at Gettysburg, little wonder he preferred to think of Alexandria! – but Henry avoided certain parts of their shared past with all the grim inevitability of a New England winter. 

Jed had seen little harm in it, at first. Every man alive had something he didn’t want to see the light of day. The years stretched on, Henry’d gone back to his family, taken a position at Williams and become devoted to it, letters full of news of students’ antics and (at times excessive) Emersonian reflections on the mountains and ridges of the Berkshires. Two or three times a year, he’d come to Boston with sweets and whatever things fascinating to Eli and Daniel and Johnny could be fit into a pocket or beaten carpetbag, tell tales and play games and talk in front of the fire until the small hours of mourning, and return to Williamstown with a promise to come back soon. And that was that. Some men remained bachelors, for one reason or another – there had been the widow, Mrs. Ames, but that had come to nothing. And the resolute silence around the Rebel nurse remained.

By mutual agreement, none of them wanted to discuss the murder in public, so Emma, using her maiden name as both charm and cudgel, secured the library for their conference – how familiar that felt! The drapery, the carpet, the chairs and settee had all been changed in the decade since he’d seen the room last, but their positions had not. Tennyson’s words, a charm and curse of their own, drifted through his thoughts: _though much is taken, much abides_ …

“Now then,” said Jed, shaking off the thought, “The murder. Shall you go first, or shall I?”

She gestured for him to speak, and Henry, by the windows, didn’t disagree.

“I’ll start with what’s being done, and work around to what we know,” he began, sorting the jumble of detail from the last day, “Charlotte Diggs is speaking with the kitchen staff this morning, on the reasonable theory that unless Silas Bullen had added the outdated crime of witchcraft to his lengthy confession, he could not have appeared in a pantry out of thin air. Someone must have seen or spoken with him – they’d know by the rotten taste in their mouths. Doctor Diggs has gone out to speak with old acquaintances who worked for the man during the war, but he and I will have the displeasure of a more thorough autopsy this afternoon. Mary and Mrs. Morris – Anne Hastings – have gone to speak with an old friend of our hospital days: Matron Brannan. It seems Anne and Mrs. Brannan have corresponded over the years, and the good Matron has some suspicions. Did you know she still lived in Alexandria?”

“No,” Emma bristled, “We get few letters in Franklin County.”

Was that an accusation? Jed did some bristling of his own, before continuing into the facts with the ease of frequent review. “There was a pair of spectacles and button with the body. But those spectacles apparently belonged to Doctor Squivers.”

 _Doctor Squivers_. Jed quashed the impulse to pinch the bridge of his nose and sigh; Henry moved into the conversation gap with a something like a surgeon’s precision: “The button was a black cloth-covered one, large enough to have come off some coat or cloak. Bullen wasn’t missing any.”

“So it came off the murderer’s garment?”

“That," Jed said, "Or the murderer planted it.” 

“It seems a common kind of button,” Emma volunteered, hesitantly. 

“Yes. In this weather, a third of Alexandria might have been our man.”

“As useless as evidence as it is a means of framing anyone in particular,” continued Henry, who’d had half the night to turn over the problem while Doctor Squivers dreamed.

Emma glanced across the room at Henry, and then quickly away. “Why do you believe the murderer was trying to frame anyone?”

“Someone interfered with the blood in the pantry, seemingly for effect.”

“Did they write anything?”

“No,” Jed replied, thinking that words scrawled in blood would have likely clarified some things and might have been a more welcome development than he’d previously suspected possible. Perhaps the dime novels his students were constantly quoting were getting to him. “Only spread the blood across the walls.”

She frowned, for a few moments – Jed didn’t think her disturbed by the implication, so much as confused by why someone would go to the trouble of, frankly, making more of a mess. When he did speak further, Emma swept away the look of concern and refolded her hands in her lap. “I have little to say. My sister thinks that the likeliest solution is that it was one of the kitchen staff, and my brother and mother are in agreement.”

“Has she any evidence?”

“Convenience.” Her tone was flat. “I don’t think she knows the name of a single porter or maid, but it would cause the least disruption of the plan to sell the hotel.” _And it wouldn’t cause her to lose any sleep_ , her sour expression seemed to say.

“Unsurprising.”

Emma assented.

“And Reverend Stringfellow?”

“My husband agrees with my family.”

Jed drummed his fingers against his pant leg, not surprised by any of it, but still vaguely annoyed no obvious culprit had presented themselves. Henry was glancing out the window to the street below.

It was little enough that Jed had to wonder: was it true, or not? 

Still, the most indelicate question had not been asked, and so Jed forged ahead, apology first. “You'll forgive the blunt question, but it must be asked. Have you any reason to believe that any of your family might have been Bullen’s killer?”

“No, no.” Emma Stringfellow’s face flashed sorrow, anger, resentment. “And where my husband is concerned, what good could my testimony be?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M NOT DEAD, Y'ALL!
> 
> ~~more than Bullen can say, for sure~~
> 
> Emma has cause to reflect on her legal status as a married woman in Virginia this chapter: Virginia lagged behind other states in the Union where married women controlling their own property was concerned: VA had rejected a Married Women's Property Act, allowing a married woman to control property independent of her husband, in the 1840s, and would not pass such an Act until 1877 (worth noting that arguments for (white) women controlling their own property in marriage in the antebellum South revolved in no small part around their investment in slavery - see Jones-Rogers, _They Were Her Property_ , most recently) - so Emma has cause to be concerned about to what Frank intends to do with her share of the sale. I'm less than 100% positive in my next assertion, because there's only so many histories of _Trammel v. United States_ I can wade through before going cross eyed, but her other concern is what legal standing she might have in a court room: spousal privilege appears to have been interpreted in the 19th century to allow one spouse to block incriminating testimony of the other.
> 
> ~~should have made better choices, m'dear~~
> 
> Jed briefly compares Henry to New Hampshire's (alas, late) famous rock formation in the White Mountains near Franconia Notch, also creatively called "The Great Stone Face", which seemed close enough to some of the more unflattering nicknames we've put in Anne Hastings' dialogue/narration that I couldn't resist.
> 
> I'm playing follow the leader with you fine folks and just whole-sale lifting out of IRL Henry Hopkins' biography: while the real HH didn't join the New York 120th Infantry until 1864, I bumped that up to 1863 at the latest (just so I could stick Henry in the middle of the absolute shitshow that was the collapse of Sickles' salient on July 2nd at Gettysburg? doesn't sound like me) and I have no doubt that he Saw Shit between Gettysburg and the Overland Campaign - although I couldn't shoehorn the real HH's breaking out into "The Battle Hymn of the Republic" at the battle of Hatcher's Run in 1865 in Jed's abbreviated notes on Henry's military career. That joy I cede to writers more talented than I. :D
> 
> Who's Mrs. Ames? Good question! The note attached to IRL Henry Hopkins' wartime letters archived at Duke University says they were written to Mary C. and Winona Ames, so I borrowed the name to my own ends.
> 
> Last but not least: I had to use Tennyson. I really did.
> 
> Tag, sagiow, I believe you're it!


	12. Chapter 12

As Emma, Foster and Hopkins stepped out of the library, they promptly fell upon Colonel and Mrs. Hale, visibly dressed for a day on the town. Emma stared wistfully at the woman's glamorous walking dress; she had rarely met anyone who could make shades of brown shimmer brighter than the most colorful of jewels. _And what a most extraordinary hat...!_ she thought, with a pang of envy. _There, through the ostrich feathers, are those falcon or pheasant wings? No, wait, is it... an actual bird?!_

“Ah, there you are!” Eliza exclaimed, interrupting her avian interrogations. “Were you three holding a book club in there or simply hiding from us?” 

Henry cleared his throat, shuffled his feet. “We thought it more... prudent, to discuss the unfortunate situation at hand.” 

Hale nodded conspiratorially. “Quite right; we wouldn’t want this to alarm the other guests, would we? Speaking of... our friend, are we still on, for this afternoon? For our... in depth investigation?” he asked, with all the gravity one might use to inquire as to a cricket match or a promised picnic. 

“Yes, as soon as Dr. Diggs returns,” replied Foster. “His expertise will be useful.” 

Hale clapped his hands and wiped them together excitedly. “Most excellent! That should be quite illuminating!” The look on Foster’s face would not have been much different if the bird on Eliza’s hat had then spread its wings and flown away. 

“Are Mrs. Foster and Mrs. Morris with you, then?” rallied Eliza, peeking around the pastor into the library. “I was hoping for the pleasure of their company again this morning. We had such a lovely evening!” 

Jed narrowed his eyes at his former wife, finding the account quite different from the one his current one had given him. “No, they went to call on an old friend of ours.” 

“Oh, how vexing!” she almost pouted, before her attention landed on Emma. “Well then, Mrs. Stringfellow, I would be most severely in your debt if you would care to accompany me. If you are not otherwise engaged, of course.” 

Emma started at the offer; why on Earth was Mrs. Hale, formerly Foster, asking for _her_ company? They had barely done more than exchange pleasantries in their very short acquaintance, and even those had barely counted as pleasant, under the circumstances. An outing with her seemed quite outlandish, and she was about to politely decline, before being struck by her alternatives. Or lack thereof, rather. 

Mary and Anne had left Mansion House that morning without as much as a note or apology; Frank as well, although that bothered her much less. She had thought of joining Charlotte’s efforts but, on account of being a Green, even if formerly, she now felt that her presence might not exactly be welcome among the staff. The three men of medicine would be busy at their dreadful operation all afternoon. As for her family, she’d already seen enough of them to last her another decade. But most importantly, sulking around the hotel only increased her odds of bumping into the austere reverend; she risked a glance at him again, only to find him quite intent on some detail on Mrs. Hale’s extravagant bustle, and decided she’d finally rather volunteer for Bullen’ autopsy then face that dire prospect. 

“I did not have anything planned this morning,” she shrugged lightly. “May I ask where we’d be going?” 

“To a Parisian dressmaker that was most warmly recommended by your dear sister. I ordered a small _trousseau_ to kick off this new era of our life in Washington City, and I am due for a fitting on the gown I had made for Byron’s big event. I would very much appreciate another woman’s opinion, especially one with such a fine eye for beauty.” 

_Is this a cruel jape?_ Emma wondered, keenly aware of the years gone by since her dress had been fashionable, of the many dusty miles her worn hem had labored over, of the loose stitch on her sleeve she had forgotten to fix earlier. Eliza must have felt her hesitation, for she stepped up to her, placed a comforting hand on her forearm, and leaned in to speak in a hushed tone, as one might with her oldest confidante. 

“I spent years in California with modest frontiersmen, with nothing remotely resembling fashion nor femininity; that did not mean I lost my taste nor appetite for it. I’m able to indulge now that we’re back into civilized society and have such a momentous occasion for doing so. Please, do come along and share this thrill with me. I am sure we’ll have an absolutely wonderful time.” 

There was an eager, encouraging spark in the older woman’s blue gaze, a stark contrast to the suspicious dark one in her former husband’s. Was that a warning? Of what, exactly? What harm could come from a few hours at a dressmaker, surrounded with so many treasures she could never afford? For once, as the guest of a surely notable patroness, she would have a merited reason for being there; she might even get to live vicariously through Mrs. Hale’s glamorous purchases, and drink some fine tea along the way. All things considered, not the worst way to spend a morning. 

Finally, she nodded with a smile. “I’d be happy to, Mrs. Hale. Just let me fetch my hat and coat.” 

“Splendid! You are truly a life-saver, Mrs. Stringfellow.” She gave her arm one last squeeze and stepped away. “I will request our carriage be prepared at once.” 

“Ahead of you, my love,” Hale announced, as Emma darted off. “I can escort you ladies on my way to the hospital.” 

“Hospital?” Foster echoed, with a snarky edge. “What is the Supervising Surgeon General doing in an actual hospital?” 

“ _Supervising,_ Foster. I’m keen on getting to know the various hospitals under my jurisdiction. I’m taking a specific interest in St. Elizabeths.” 

“St. Elizabeths? The Government Hospital for the Insane?” Foster repeated again, even more dumbstruck. “What is the Supervising _Surgeon_ General doing in a _psychiatric_ hospital?” 

“Ah, I see you’ve kept up on your neurology...” Hale approved. “One of Miss Dix’s finest works, under Kirkbride’s revolutionary design of “moral architecture”. It is one of the utmost references in terms of progressive psychiatric patient care in the country. Can you believe they've all but abandoned the use of restraints on patients? Truly mind-opening. Alas, my more precise calling is to the east wing, where the US Navy’s St. Elizabeth's Army Medical Hospital is housed, but I mean to keep a curious eye on the good work being performed in the west one." 

Eliza smiled along with his words, although the earlier brightness of her complexion had noticeably dimmed. “Is something the matter, Mrs. Hale?” asked Hopkins. 

“Oh no, just this talk of asylums... Not the most uplifting of subjects, is it?” 

“Perhaps not, but a necessary one, I’m afraid,” Henry sighed, his expression weary. “I remember quite well that not all wounds incurred by soldiers are physiological in nature... that they, and other patients, get proper, respectful care for these ailments, is vital. The Lord’s work, truly.” 

“Takes a tortured mind to know one, doesn’t it, Hopkins?” joked Hale, to Henry’s discomfort, Foster’s disbelief, and Eliza’s discouragement. “Say, would one of you fellows care to come along? A second opinion is always recommended in medical matters. And moral ones, of course. ” 

Foster glared at him. “We have quite a sensitive situation on our hands here, Hale.” 

“And it shall still be here when we return, Foster. Our friend is not going anywhere. So, what say you? For old time’s sake? Our wives are out on the town this fine morning, why should they get all the fun while we bum around waiting for Diggs?” 

Jed looked to Henry, who shrugged. “I have some correspondence I meant to catch up on. I can keep an eye on things if you want to go, Dr. Foster, ask a few subtle questions to the other staff and guests. Maybe lead them in prayer, see if that gets them in a confessional state.” 

Visiting a progressive psychiatric hospital did sound much more appealing to Jedidiah that standing guard next to a bloody pantry or, even worse, praying over a cold corpse. Catching his wavering, Hale clapped him on the back. “Then it’s settled; you’re coming. Hale and Foster, back in the theater!” 

For something so flippant, why did it feel so ominous? 

* * *

Emma had to admit it – she was indeed having an absolutely wonderful time. 

The shop was brightly lit and filled with all matters of heavenly fantasies. Bolt after bolt of colorful material, of all textures and sheens, filled the racks behind the counter. They were attended by the dressmaker and two assistants; one had dared to look at Emma sideways upon entering and had been immediately, brusquely rebuked by Eliza, to the assistant’s humiliation and the younger women’s surprise. She had only received the politest and promptest of service since, as she had in her antebellum Belle years. The hours flew by as she marvelled over yards of sheer Bengali muslin, of shiny Italian taffeta, of delicate Battenberg lace; as she had enjoyed the most delicious English tea in fine China cups accompanied by exquisitely flaky French _pâtisseries_. She had never travelled so far in so few miles. 

“What do you think, Mrs. Stringfellow?” Eliza asked from atop her pedestal, where the dressmaker was adjusting the fold of her skirts, the long train cascading behind her. 

“It’s marvelous, Mrs. Hale,” assured Emma, as she played with a length of velvet ribbon, enjoying the soft texture of the fabric through her calloused fingers. “An absolute work of art. That crimson color is so rich, so bold, and with the black detailing... you pull it off quite well.” 

Through the mirror, Eliza smiled. “How kind of you, my dear! I do think it’s quite lovely, although I can’t help but think it is perhaps a bit _too_ bold, for a woman of my age. It’s one thing to attract attention, but quite another to hold it for the wrong reasons.” Pursing her lips, she fidgeted with the bodice, the draping over her bared shoulders, shifting left and right as she evaluated her reflection, before lifting her gaze back to Emma’s, and pausing. “Although.... now that I’m looking at you, I think it would suit your coloring just perfectly; with your raven hair, your fair skin... my, you’d be absolutely ravishing!” 

She stepped down and walked up to her companion, bidding her to rise. Emma did so reticently, and grew more troubled from the analytical way in which Eliza assessed her, looking her up and down and every which way. “Why, we are of a height! And you’ve kept your slim figure as well. Have you any children?” she asked, pointe blank. 

“N-no,” Emma stammered. “We have... not been blessed. Have you and Doct- Colonel Hale?” 

Eliza’s expression softened and she smiled wistfully. “We have been, although too shortly _..._ Betty, our darling girl. We lost her to measles when she was four.” 

“Oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean-” 

Eliza waved her off. "I asked you the question first, you only politely returned it. Now let's see,” she trailed, holding a pane of her train up to Emma’s face, and sighing. “Oh, that is stunning.” 

Perhaps it was the poor sleep, or the lost mastery of conversation from living in relative seclusion for so long, but the rhythm of the discussion, the alternating, incompatible subjects and the other woman’s ministrations had Emma completely befuddled. Still, it was too touching a topic to simply let it drop. “Losing a child... it must be terrible. Much worse than never having one in the first place.” 

“It was... difficult,” Eliza said simply, smoothing the fabric back into place, her eyes unfocused upon it. “She was my pride, Byron’s joy. Such a bright, beautiful child. He was beside himself with grief when he couldn’t save her. Abandoned medicine right then and there, swore never to practice again. Those were... difficult months. Years. I'm not quite sure.” 

From the weight of Emma’s rapt attention, she looked up then, a dismissive smile quickly appearing on her lips. “The posting to Washington City was an absolute godsend; it gave him new purpose, and the chance for us to start again some place both old and new. We looked forward to being among friends again. Family.” She locked her gaze upon Emma’s. “Life sometimes requires extreme measures to become bearable again. To find peace once more.” 

She clasped Emma’s hand warmly then and the younger woman returned it. Friends... how few had she herself. She could not help but feel a certain kindred spirit with the woman before her, such as she had only briefly felt with the nurses back at Mansion House; Eliza had also been a former Southern Belle, her tilting tone so very close to her own. She had probably gone through the same education, the same etiquette lessons, the same debut and balls and parties, but while Emma’s had been interrupted at their prime, Eliza had seen them bear fruit, scoring a proper match with a handsome doctor from a wealthy landowning family. Until the war had proved to be the end of that, as well.

“You were brave to do so,” Emma said. “Coming back here, starting over.” 

Eliza tilted her head. “Oh, I’d had some practice. You know, I must have been about your age when I headed out West, that first time... and I did not have a loving, devoted husband by my side, then.” 

The parallel was as a slap to Emma's face; for all her success in all the traditional sense of the word, Eliza had cast it all aside, preferring divorce and exile to remaining in an unhappy marriage. From working with the man and from the constant attention he gave Mary, the young woman could not fathom that being married to Jedidiah Foster could be so very horrid; but yet, his first wife had given it all up in hope of a better life. What did that speak of her, then, she who shared a bed with a man who made every fiber of her being squirm? Who she occasionally feared when he got into one of his tempers? Who was beyond hope, beyond redemption, beyond love itself? 

Apparently unaware as to her troubles, Eliza smiled warmly and pulled her towards the dressing room. “Now, Emma – may I please call you Emma? Do be a dear and try on this dress. Oh, and the violet one there as well; with your eyes, it will be absolutely devastating. It might have to be taken in a stitch or two over the bodice, but nothing Madame de Maisonneuve cannot pull off in a wink. Try both on and pick whichever you prefer, it’s yours.” 

So bewilderingly brought back to reality, Emma froze in her tracks. “What?! Oh no, Mrs. Hale, I could never...” 

“Nonsense. And Eliza, please. It absolutely will _not_ do for Byron’s friends not to look their absolute best at his celebratory dinner. And I did say I would be severely in your debt if you accompanied me today; we'll consider that debt paid.” Her eyes narrowed, giving her smile an intriguing tilt. “Besides, it may also do wonders in rekindling an old flame.” 

_Oh, what fresh Hell is this now?_ Was it that obvious, to even strangers’ eyes? Had rumors of her and Henry’s... whatever it had been, reached her ears in California? Or had someone spoken of it at the hotel? Mary or Anne, perhaps, during their little sherry- fueled evening? She bristled at the traitorous thought and implications. “I assure you I have none of the sort,” she replied coldly, pulling her hand away. 

“Oh goodness me, forgive me for the _mésentendu_ _!”_ Eliza’s eyes widened, and she clasped the freed hand over her heart. _“_ I meant your _husband,_ of course; I saw you become a bit flustered there, when I mentioned my loving, devoted fool of a one.” 

At Emma’s crestfallen expression, she let out a compassionate sigh. “Oh, don’t be so troubled, dear one... it’s quite very normal that after years of routine and redundancy, a marriage may need a bit of... spicing up. To keep romance alive. It would pain me dearly to hear Mr. Stringfellow had become... unmoved to the many charms of a woman as striking as yourself. I believe he just needs a gentle reminder. Go on, now.” Delicately, she grabbed the violet dress from its holder and draped it over Emma, spinning her around to face the full-length mirror. “It’s your time to shine.” 

And as Emma took in her reflection, the glorious dress before her, Mrs. Hale’s beaming smile above her shoulder, she could not help but wish for it to be true. 

* * *

At the hotel, Henry Hopkins had torn up more letters than he had written. Despite the clear light of day that poured into the library, his eyes were rebelling against their mission, refusing to focus upon the paper before them, the ink spilling into shapes and blots with no resemblance to letters. He called upon his fingers’ memory to form the words, repeating each under his breath like a schoolboy to keep track of them, but with no possibility of re-reading them afterwards, it was futile. Finally, he gave up, tossing the pen away angrily across the desk, his glasses following suit. He stood, pacing the room, moving to the window to stare out at the busy street. There were colors, shapes, shadows, all blotching together like an Impressionist painting, but he could not make out any details. 

The depth of his field of vision was closing in every day. Far had left him first, near was following closely behind. Only the middle remained clear; that precise, polite distance at which Emma Stringfellow always stood. 

No longer Emma Green, that was for sure; the gravity and barely-checked bitterness of the woman were not qualities the girl had possessed. It both scared and saddened him at once, like falling upon a wounded wolf; would she accept his help, or would she bite off his hand when he offered it? But under the sober dress, the soberer mood, she was still Emma: in that faraway look in her sorrowful eyes, in the graceful curve of her neck, the way her chest heaved when she held back a retort, her hands moved to her hips when she was cross. In how her parted lips, her fine fingers, still haunted him, thirteen years after the river. 

He stepped out of the room then, even angrier than before: if he was not to get any work done, he should at least ensure not falling victim to the ghosts of wars past, to the sinful depravity of coveting another man’s wife. Another man was dead, for Heaven’s sake! A killer was at large! 

Heavily, his hand hovering over the banister just in case he’d miss a step, he descended the stairs to the kitchen. The mess had been cleaned up and staff was already at work preparing the night’s dinner, chopping and cutting and skinning away, as if similar actions had not been gruesomely performed just recently in the pantry behind them. The door was closed and all people steered quite clear of it, leading Henry to wonder just how long they’d leave the room in such a state, how they’d be able to ever redeem it as a pantry afterwards. Perhaps it would be best to simply brick it off and forget it, the repulsive victim along with it. 

_That’s not very Christian of you,_ he scolded himself. _You should be praying for his surely tortured soul, not condemning him to further indignities_. And it was under this remorse that he stepped into the hall, to the room that had been re-dedicated as a morgue. This door was locked, should a lost guest fall upon the surprise of a lifetime, and Henry had been assigned as key holder in the others’ absence. With a sigh, he inserted it in the hole, recited a first prayer for himself, to be given strength to deal with the offensive sight and probable smell that would soon assail him, and pushed the door open. 

Half a step in, he froze. His vision might have been failing him, but there was no mistaking the sight before him. 

The room was empty. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HA! Can’t go on debating which evidence is actually evidence if all the evidence is GONE! *ducks to avoid all the stuff tossed angrily over* 
> 
> Apparently, my lasting contribution to Southern Gothic will be bringing a period-appropriate asylum into the mix, alluding to ghosts here and there, and sticking dead stuffed birds on ladies’ hats as this was A Very Stylish Thing back then, starting around 1875 (there’s one photo with three dead budgies that is the stuff of nightmares). I willingly let one perfectly organic chance to plug in Peacocks go by because poor Cruise Ship Henry deserves a break  
> http://www.victoriana.com/victorian-feather-hats/  
> https://19thcenturyghosts.com/2015/12/15/the-victorian-penchant-for-plumage/ 
> 
> I finally did exclude one deleted scene... by mistake. I hit Post instead of Preview while debating it. AO3 chose for me. So that's a sure sign to quit editing this and just let it go into the unknown.
> 
> My apologies to middlemarch as this might cause a fanon clash with her pre-dinner vignettes in "A lady, unless she wishes to be eccentric, must follow the fashions" https://archiveofourown.org/works/24287203. One of the hazards of writing a tag story in parallel with a much slower writer... (although this took me under a week! This *has* to be a personal record)
> 
> Henry's sight plight is also totally taken from her "At the moment of vision, the eyes see nothing" (https://archiveofourown.org/works/23762164/chapters/57074590) that I remembered as a deleted scene but was actually more of an AU. Total oops on my part, full credit to her.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexandria no longer agrees with Frank Stringfellow, and he wants to be among his friends, at least for a while.

Alexandria no longer agreed with Frank Stringfellow.

It had been a long time since he’d called the city home (ten years, and then some, by his count) but now it seemed like every visit back felt like taking a bite out of a bad apple, grown soft and tasteless sitting too long on the tree. In his youth, in the time before the war, it used to be that a man had friends in this city who shared his opinions, and could be relied upon in times of trouble, and who did not mind saying what they meant, instead of what they thought people wanted to hear, or what was found polite.

But that was before, and now many of his friends were here - not in the sparkling halls of the Mansion House hotel enjoying their whiskey at the gleaming mahogany bar, but much less vaunted venues, passed over by the fleeting fingers of prosperity. Run-down, more than a little gone to seed, but where a man could still voice his opinions and not be afraid of being shushed.

“You’d hate to see the place today,” he said, disgustedly, taking a sip of his flask. “Mansion House. Money-loving carpetbaggers everywhere, stealing our commerce - stealing our women. Makes you ashamed of all the things you could have done and didn’t.” His audience gave their silent agreement. “And of course now it’s filled with Yankees, for this goddamn party of Alice’s. Alice  _ Squivers.” _ He made a sound of disgust. “Been nearly eight years and that fool still hasn’t figured out she loves him about as much as a cook loves flies - and with two children at home. Don’t know how she managed  _ that, _ ” he added, with a sneer. “But she always was a good liar, Alice. And he’s  _ foolish  _ for her - do anything her little heart desires, he would. He does.” He took another pull from his flask. “Makes you sick.” 

One did not really choose one’s in-laws, but Frank had truly failed in the matter of the Greens - there had been the promise of money, but that was gone quickly, after the factory burned and the hotel continued its use as a hospital for the duration of the war. Now James was dead, and Emma had gotten practically nothing from his estate, and it was not as though Confederate Army’s pensions were worth noting in an account-book. Her mother was now living a life of somewhat glassy-eyed gentility in the once-fine house, seeing things and people that weren’t there and ordering around servants she hadn’t employed for years, and Jimmy, having once been a man of principle, had sold out his beliefs to the green-eyed god of profit, happy to talk about the good old days over a glass of punch but never to do anything beyond that, and Alice was married to a Yankee doctor, living in Washington City and entertaining in style.

And he, Frank Stringfellow, was... being ignored. Which, today, suited his purposes just fine.

“This party - it’s all his people - hospital people, from the war - come to rub their good fortune in our faces. They’ve all done well, of course - Dr. Foster married that nurse who was in charge in the early days, and they’ve got children, though she’s poorly. The chaplain’s ...teaching at some school, up North, and the other doctor, Hale, has been through the Indian Wars and who knows what else.” He took another nip, thoughtful. “His wife’s a picture, though.” 

Yes, pretty Mrs. Hale, with her sumptuous dress and flashing eyes. He’d caught a whiff of her perfume on the stairs as she sallied by, the flash (so tantalizing) of a lacy petticoat, and he had wished, ever so briefly, that he’d been coming home to  _ that _ in the evening. There had been a day, in the distant past, when Emma had looked like that, with a ready, teasing smile and eyes that lit up when they saw him, when she’d cared more about her appearance and made a little effort to make sure she was pretty and presentable. But he had not seen that woman in a long time. He told her, often, that she ought to try harder - reminded her, sharply, as a husband was allowed, that it was part of her duty to him, to be pleasing, as it was her duty to bear him children (another failure) and keep his house. (Oh, but money! Other women managed; why couldn’t she?) But she’d remember, in time. Constant correction, that was all that was required - constant correction, and to be kept away from false influences and distractions.

But she was his! Had been since he’d come home and put that ring on her finger, and read the vows under the watchful eye of Reverend Burwell, and signed the register! Fitting and proper, every last bit of it, not some jump-the-broom, tie-the-knot nonsense that someone  _ somewhere _ called a wedding. Not, of course, that any of  _ those people _ she called her friends had come, though he was glad at the time they hadn’t been invited. Then there had been seminary, for a while, and then they had gone to take his current position in Franklin, where he liked the people, and the climate of public opinion agreed with his constitution more. 

He was already formulating his sermon for when they returned to his church, a meditation on Matthew 6 - “ _No man can serve two masters:...Ye cannot serve God and mammon._ ” It would be well received, he thought - Franklin County had seen little of the sunshine of prosperity that Alexandria had been basking in in present years, and his little flock liked to be reminded that there was virtue in poverty, and adhering to one’s principles. God would see them, and their deeds. God would know that _they_ were in the right. 

But the shine of virtue had a slim allure here, where he knew his coat-elbows were thin and anyone with eyes could see that Emma’s skirt-hem had been turned at least once. The sale of the hotel would help with that. That, and only that, was what had brought him back to deal with his traitorous, two-faced in-laws. A few days more, and he could take Emma away from the poisonous influence of these Yankees and back to where he knew the ground under his feet, and people didn’t question his right to be anywhere, or do, or say, anything. A few days more and he’d be free from all of it. He took another pull from his flask and let the possibility revive him a little.

“I wonder what she was thinking when she married him - Mrs. Hale.” he asked the waiting crowd, more for his own prognostication than theirs. “Strength of character? A more than prepossessing fifth limb?” He chuckled, and a ripple, almost like laughter, went through their ranks. “Or maybe she married him for his connections, and just puts up with him, like Alice does Perce. That’s usually the case, when a wife’s better-looking than her husband.”

Perce - ha. He used the nickname out of convenience more than affection, Squivers being a mouthful and Percival being worse. The two men couldn’t have had any less in common if they’d been born at opposite ends of the earth. Frank, who’d been born in Virginia and raised to ride and hunt and think the world was his to command, who had a way with women and with words that made people love him, and Percival, who’d gone to public schools to build his character and then the Medical Academy and was short-sighted and bookish and easy to ignore, more at home in a classroom than at a cotillion. Frank remembered being in the Green house (and practically a newlywed himself) when Alice had flounced home with Squivers on her arm and announced that they’d be getting married, showing off a ring that immediately made her the envy of all her friends. There was Alice, eyes flashing in that way that suggested she’d gotten a particularly good bargain, and Percival, stunned, unable to believe his luck, coughing on the whiskey that they’d toasted the engagement with and going home a little soused after only two or three drinks. What had Shakespeare said?  _ An idiot, signifying nothing. _

But he was loyal to the family, in his fashion - sent money for Jane’s maintenance, and wrote prescriptions when her own doctor would not. And he’d done  _ this  _ \- or farmed the task out to Frank, at any rate. Would Emma have gone running for Alice, and asked her for what Perce had asked him, explaining that if they did not do this, if  _ he _ did not do this, then everything that they’d worked so hard for - the party, the successful sale of the hotel - would be lost, and the money with it? Would Alice have done as he was doing now? He doubted that. Emma loved her sister, but trust between them was less lasting than block ice on a porch in July. And speaking of July -

Frank wiped his brow, and considered where he stood. It was time to return to the task at hand. This was hot work - and he was hardly done.  _ The things I do for this ungrateful family. _

“I tell you, Tom, you’re better fixed where you are,” he said, taking one last sip from his flask and standing up from where he’d been leaning, half-seated, on a waiting wall. “Things just ain’t the same around here since you left.”

Tom Fairfax’s grave said nothing in reply, keeping its silent, weather-worn vigil over the overgrown cemetery and its rows of graves with old family names and pointed tops, and the deep, freshly dug hole Frank had jumped back down into, while one bloated body waited under canvas in the back of a hired wagon, slowly ripening in the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, the world's even more on fire than it was when we started this crazy thing, so let's see if we can wrap this up in the next six chapters! Sagiow and I have discussed extensively and think we have a solution that works for everyone, so, other authors, if you want to be read in on that, message either of us.
> 
> I, the author of this chapter, do openly and unequivocally state that the body in the back of that wagon is Silas Bullen, and that Percival Squivers absolutely, in a state of blind panic, asked his brother-in-law to get it the heck out of the hotel so the sale can go through. (The last we saw of Frank was his abortive visit to breakfast in Chapter 11, when he said he was following Emma to Mrs. Green's and Emma, arriving after he left, said he'd gone to call on friends.) 
> 
> The pointed top of Tom's grave is in keeping with the style of later government issued stones, which were curved for Union soldiers and pointed for Confederate ones. I put the detail in, however, because of a mention on PBS's website that I've been unable to verify, that the real Stringfellow's gravestone was pointed at the top to 'prevent Union soldiers and sympathizers from sitting on it,' which absolutely sounds like the kind of petty thing a bitter old man would ask for.


	14. Chapter 14

“What a pity,” Eliza said, sipping the overly dainty cut-glass cup of punch Byron had offered her with a flourish, as if to make up for the parsimonious serving. It was also missing any spirits, but her reticule was too small to contain even a petite flask. 

“I could top it off with some whiskey,” her husband offered. “It won’t be cold though.”

“You’re very dear, but that’s not what I meant,” Eliza replied. The dancers whirled around the room, keeping pace with the musicians. They were a rather sedate group, but the violins were in tune and the bass kept good time. The room was filled with light; Alice Squivers must have bought all the tapers in Alexandria and the golden light was gentle, flattering, but it could not conceal everything. Jedediah’s brow was furrowed and Mary Foster was thoughtful, waltzing slowly, more graceless than if she had been clumsy before her illness. Dr. Diggs was tired and his wife was frustrated and Byron had the abstracted look she knew too well, for all that he was smiling at her. Eliza smiled back, as charmingly as she could, achieving her desired response.

“Mrs. Stringfellow. She’s in a white muslin so old and limp I don’t suppose you could even use it for bandages. And after I gave her the scarlet organza! It was so striking with her complexion, even without jewels,” Eliza said.

“She couldn’t hold a candle to you, my love,” Byron said gallantly. “Little Miss Green that was—I remember she once nearly eviscerated a solider with her hoops. Foster would never let her hear the end of it. He always fancied himself quite the wit.”

“I wonder,” Eliza said, ignoring his comments about Jedediah. Emma Stringfellow would have caught every eye in the ballroom in that red silk gown and that would have been worth something to a former belle, something precious. What had it been worth to refrain? Was the dress still laid in its box or had the younger woman even kept it? If her bitter-eyed husband had seen her in it, would he have smiled or snarled? Had Emma decided it was wiser to see what the dressmaker would give her for it in greenbacks? A ballgown could be worn to a ball; cash traveled.

“If it’s a mystery you mean to solve, I’m sure you will, Eliza,” Byron said.

* * *

“Must we solve the mystery?” Charlotte muttered, her foot tapping to the music. She would have liked to dance but not in this company. And not when Samuel looked so fatigued. He was persistent and she was determined; it was not the same thing.

“Are we to forget we saw his dead body? It would make a neat solution, I suppose; no corpse, then no murder, no crime, no criminal. Old Silas Bullen not even a victim, just a memory that lasted a little too long,” Samuel said. Charlotte shrugged, recognizing Samuel’s tone. He could turn poetical like this. If he hadn’t loved or needed medicine so much, he would have made a fine preacher.  
“I don’t see why it falls to you. Now there’s no body to examine, why should you be any better at investigating? Let old Pegleg sort through it,” Charlotte said. “He’s the eighth wonder of the world to hear him speak of himself.”

“Byron Hale won’t figure it out, not in a thousand Sundays, even if he had both his eyes to see with,” Sam said. There was suddenly laughter and it wasn’t Charlotte, but Mrs. Morris, who’d sidled closer to them without their notice, an impressive feat given the dramatic dimensions of her bustle.

“Quick off the mark as ever!” Anne cried out. If they hadn’t been at the reception, she suspected the woman would have clapped Samuel on the shoulder. “Mary’s likely to though, with a little more time and a little more information. She’s got that look about her, you remember?”

“Wise as a serpent, gentle as a dove?” Sam said, getting a smile from both women.

“Bridget Brannan always said Mary had a touch of the Sight,” Anne remarked. “Maybe in a place like this, haunted by so many dead boys, that’s what it’ll take. Seeing as how you men have managed to misplace the corpse.”

“It was Reverend Hopkins tasked with keeping watch,” Charlotte said sharply. 

“Keeping vigil, more like. Have you seen him squint and rub at his eyes?” Anne said.

“There’s been plenty to trouble a man’s vision here, more for a man of God than most,” Sam said. 

“Specially one with his regrets. What he did here and what he left undone,” Anne said. “Will that orchestra ever leave off with mazurkas? I’ve a mind to say something.”

* * *

“The man was undone. Entirely. It almost roused pity in me,” Jed said. “He must have been half-mad during the War—if he hadn’t tried to kill you, I might have been more inclined to intercede for him.” They had agreed to forgo any discussion of Silas Bullen’s missing body at the reception, though neither had it far from their thoughts.

“You’re certain it was Major McBurney you saw at the asylum?” Mary asked. They had retired from the dancing, Jed quite insistent that she rest and be plied with cakes and punch. The chair he’d found for her wasn’t very comfortable, but she was able to sit and he pitched his voice so that she could hear him quite clearly. He looked quite well in his frock coat and remarkably subdued waistcoat. His sartorial restraint was notable, but he’d made it clear it was to focus the guests’ collective gaze on “my beautiful wife.” Despite what it meant about her vanity, she’d basked in his pride and hadn’t fussed when he’d stolen a kiss. He’d taken great care, after all, not to disarrange the ringlets draped over her shoulder.

“His deranged shouting about, and I quote, ‘a damn Yankee Baroness,’ was fairly convincing. And he still wore his uniform, tattered though it was,” Jed said.

“How sad to be so lost. The War wounded so many, so variably,” Mary said.

“Byron spoke with the staff, made some arrangements for better treatment, a room with windows, walks on the grounds with a companion. It was a relief, frankly, to be speaking of the proper treatment of the insane, after that carriage ride,” Jed said.

“I shall be very interested to hear Emma’s recounting of it,” Mary said, waving the other woman over. “I’m sure a cup of punch would be most refreshing for her and no one will have thought to offer her one.”

“You wish to hear what she has to say without me present. I see right through you, Molly,” he replied.

“Let me not to the marriage of true minds/ Admit impediments,” Mary countered and Jed gave a very brief, very correct bow and walked over to the table with the punchbowl. Emma came to occupy the spot beside Mary, everything about her appearance suggesting sadly faded glory except for her blue eyes and the flowers in her hair.

“Good evening, Emma! Jedediah maintains your carriage ride today was a foretaste of Hell, complete with brimstone, but I am well-familiar with his tendency toward exaggeration,” Mary said with a smile, hoping to coax one in return.

“It was a trifle awkward, but then Dr. Hale began to explain the history of his lost eye and that occupied us until we arrived at the dressmaker’s,” Emma said. “It was a particularly vivid tale.”

“I shall have to ask Jedediah to tell me about that—”

“Oh, there you are, Emma! I hardly noticed you in that dress. I can’t say it does much for your complexion,” Alice interrupted, flicking her fan open and shut. Her eyes gleamed and her diamond ear-bobs swung as merrily as their ample carats allowed; she seemed to think her arrival needed no introduction. Her husband stood beside her, taller and more grim-faced than Mary had remembered him.

“Mrs. Foster, Mrs. Stringfellow, good evening,” he said.

“You needn’t call Emma ‘Mrs. Stringfellow,’ Percival dear. She’s my sister,” Alice scolded. Jed was approaching, his hands full, but one glance told Mary he’d taken it all in. Her gaze rested on her husband as Alice sniped happily at her sister; afterwards, they would all admit to being distracted from what should have held their attention, Frank Stringfellow advancing towards them most purposefully, his face pale, his jaw clenched. He paused in front of Mary for the briefest of moments, like a knight seeking his queen’s favor, then lurched forward, his dark eyes roving.

“You bitch!” he spat out as he collapsed, coughing a great gout of blood all over Mary’s bodice and skirt, his head in her lap as if he were a child wishing to be comforted. Amid the tumult, the crash of the glasses Jed dropped as he called out “Mary!” and Alice’s startled arpeggio shriek, Anne’s ringing “Bloody hell!” and the last trailed notes of the violins, Emma’s voice was almost a whisper and yet shockingly audible to everyone around her.

“He’s been stabbed. In the back.”

The walnut hilt of the knife was barely visible against Frank’s black coat, thrust so deep it could not have missed his heart. He was dead.


	15. Chapter 15

Emma laughed. 

She could tell that she was being hysterical. She could still think like a nurse enough to recognize it. But instead of administering to herself in the needed ways - a glass of water, fresh air, some distance from the dead body of her husband and the horrified gasps of the fleeing guests - her laughter became louder and more frenzied as tears fell from her eyes. Some might have mistaken her tears for weeping, for grief, but Frank would have known them for what they were. 

Relief. 

She could appreciate the irony that after a decade of Frank accusing her of stabbing him in the back by not supporting his renewed allegiance to the Confederacy or the vile sermons he taught on the supremacy of their race or joyfully embracing poverty instead of stoically enduring it, someone had literally stabbed him in the back. 

She reached toward him and patted at his back, feeling for the depth and width of the wound even though it was obvious from his profound stillness that he was dead. There was no rise and fall of his back or the knife lodged in it to show breath, no twitches or spasms, no pleading words or grasping hands. 

Mary's hands covered her own and she saw the blood, thick and red transfer from her hands to Mary's and thought _I was right not to wear that new dress_. _It would be ruined._ Though perhaps it would have been hidden better, red on red silk, not the streaks of red against her faded white dress as she pulled away from Mary to wipe and wipe her hands, aware that Mary was speaking to her and that there was great flurry of movement as Dr. Foster and Dr. Diggs descended on Mary and Frank’s body sprawled across it. But she was not able to discern any of the words or the actions happening just a foot away. She was laughing, thinking of how many men she had nursed back to health or comforted as they died in this very ballroom, and how none cursed at her the way Frank had with his dying breaths.

She stood, meaning to look for the lye or some cloths or perhaps a glass of water, but froze when she saw Matron Brannon in the corner of the room and, even with Anne’s firm grip on her elbow, Emma stumbled at her lurching motion. 

_ Am I back in the war?  _

And then everything went black.

***

Alice moved away from Frank’s body immediately and was trailed by her husband who was calling her name. She planted herself in the lobby, giving desperate entreaties for the guests to stay.

“Alice, let them go. Alice, your sister needs you.” He pushed his glasses up his nose, this pair not as well fitting as the ones he had lost during his surprise discovery of a different dead body in the hotel kitchens.

“But Percival! They’ll go and fetch the police or the Pinkertons!”

He caught her hand that had been clutched tightly around the fan and opened it so that the fan fell out and the red marks from where she had clutched it were bright against her pale skin. He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed the palm and she startled at the touch. It was enough to bring her eyes to his so that she was looking at him when he said, “It’s time for help, even if the cost is great.”

“But the ball! The sale!” Her protestations were whispered and her eyes were bright with tears that she was angry she even had. What had Frank been to her since the war besides a bothersome brother-in-law? Or Emma either?

Percival shook his head and frowned at her. “This is more than an inconvenience to your plans!”

Alice took a sharp breath and felt her anger slip like the fan from her hand. “There’s no hope of dealing with this ourselves, is there? There must be dozens of witnesses.”

He pulled her close to his side as Dr. Diggs walked out of the ballroom carrying Emma, her neck stretched gracefully over the crook of his elbow. Alice didn’t know if he was speaking to her or to the room at large as he said, “She’s fine. Mrs. Morris here will see to her upstairs.”

Alice turned to watch them walk up the stairs and then turned back to look into the ballroom where Dr. Foster was removing Frank from his wife’s lap. She turned once more to Percival, a complete circle and shook her head. “I don’t know what to do, Percy. I don’t know what to do.”

He took both of her hands and squeezed them and she squeezed back. “It’s alright, Alice. I do.” 

***

Dr. Diggs closed the door firmly behind him, knowing Mrs. Morris was capable of tending to Mrs. Stringfellow and eager to get back to his wife before a new guest of the hotel turned up murdered. So far the victims had been more adversaries than allies, but he knew more than most how quickly a mob of people could turn violent and how little reason or logic had anything to do with it.

At the top of the stairs, he saw the Chaplain and Jimmy Green, Henry with his hands outstretched like he was giving a benediction and Jimmy, eyes wide with terror.

“I didn’t plan it,” Jimmy said. His cane was gone and he clutched at the bannister, unsteady on his feet.

Henry took a step closer to him, hands still raised. “I know. I heard what he said too. It would make anyone mad.”

Among the guests still exiting the hotel, whispering and shouting as they moved in a steady flow out the front door, Dr. Diggs noticed one man walking into the hotel. He had a black silk bow tie and a black short bowler hat, his wool vest and gingham cotton shirt out of place in the sea of formal attire that was parting around him as he headed for the stairs. 

“Did you hear it all? He said he’d hurt her. He’d turn her out. If the sale didn’t go through, if we didn’t give him enough money,” Jimmy looked to Henry, to Dr. Diggs, to the stranger who was now with them at the top of the stairs. He was pleading, whining as he spoke. “He said he knew I killed Bullen to frame him and that I’d never be smart enough to cut him out of a scheme.”

Henry nodded, lowering his hands and reaching for Jimmy who was leaning precariously near the top step, his grip on the bannister abandoned as he swayed near the top of the steps. “You were trying to keep her safe. I know that.”

“I killed him,” Jimmy looked again at the man at the top of the stairs with him, seeming surprised at the words he was saying. “But I knew nothing about Bullen! Bullen wasn’t me! It wasn't me!”

Jimmy made a move as if to go down the steps, but stumbled and was caught by the man in the bowler hat who grabbed him by the elbow and then brought Jimmy’s arm behind his back, snapping the ring of a tower handcuff over his wrist and then bringing his other hand behind the back to do the same.

“What are you doing? No! I just explained – “

“You just confessed to a murder,” said the man.

Dr. Diggs saw the solid silver badge on the lapel of the man’s coat, the engraved letters proclaiming “Pinkerton National Detective Agency” before the man turned and guided Jimmy down the stairs.

***

Anne had undressed her and then prepared the bath, leaving Emma in it alone as she went to find suitable clothes. Finding the silence unbearable, Emma began to whisper-sing under her breath the words of a familiar hymn.

_ There is a fountain filled with blood _

_ Drawn from Immanuel’s veins; _

_ And sinners, plunged beneath that flood, _

_ Lose all their guilty stains _

Frank hated it, had never liked it when she sang it as she tried to tidy their cold and sparse house or mend their fraying clothes. William Cowper was an abolitionist and a Methodist besides and it was one more way Frank had let her know she failed him. Even her choice of hymn was disappointing.

She sank below the waters and willed the blood and grime of the last few hours to be washed away as well. She surfaced and the flowers that had been in her hair were now floating in the soapy water, wilting and breaking apart like flowers on a grave. But Emma knew she wouldn’t drown in these waters or those of grief like Ophelia. She would rise, newer and freer, even if Ophelia’s insanity might never wash off. 

_ Redeeming love has been my theme, _

_ And shall be till I die. _

Emma stopped singing when she heard a new sound through the walls. A child's moan and then cry, a woman's voice soothing and then singing a nursery rhyme, the click of a rocking chair back and forth across a wood floor. Emma heard ghosts every time she was in Mansion House - remembered echoes of Tom's pleas to keep his presence from Alice and dying boys asking her to write to their mothers. But this was new. More real. A child? Who could she be?

Would she hear Frank’s ghost now too?

She thought of Eliza asking her about children and of Eliza's explanation of starting out anew, leaving a husband in Alexandria. To go west. Well, Emma was leaving behind a husband now too. But where would she go?

Too many questions. She had no answers for herself this evening and shivered, hoping Anne would be back soon with some clothes. There was a rap on the door and then Henry’s voice through it. “Emma? Are you alright? Anne sent me to check.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought it fitting that Jimmy would be such a terrible murderer that he would be caught immediately, though it doesn't give us much insight into Bullen's end yet! Only three more chapters to go!


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne takes matters into her own hands.

“May--May I come in?” 

The question flew from his lips before he could stop himself. 

The only sound from the other side of the door was deafening, deadly silence where there had been faint splashing before. He recalled Anne’s face when she’d gently suggested that Henry go check on her, the unspoken worry in her eyes like Emma should perhaps not be left alone. Perhaps Henry had only been imagining Anne’s concern, but if he hadn’t, if she truly was a danger to herself...Henry’s heart seized in fear, suddenly wondering if Emma had done something terribly rash and slipped beneath the water to a place he couldn’t follow. His hand was on the doorknob before he even realized he had moved. He knew these doors well--he could break it down easily, if he had to. He had seen soldiers do it before, he could summon the strength as easily as breathing. But would he already be too late? 

He pressed his ear to the door, still hearing nothing. “Emma? Emma!” All sense of decorum, any drop of propriety he may have possessed, vanished at the mere thought that she might be in danger. Henry took a step back, preparing to throw his shoulder against the door, when suddenly he heard her voice again.

“No! No, you can’t. You shouldn’t be here. I’m...I’m not decent.”

Henry breathed a quiet sigh of relief at the sound of her voice, frantic and unsure but still his Emma underneath it all. The voice in his head that told him it was a sin to covet another man’s wife--even if that man had recently shuffled off this mortal coil--was surprisingly silent, although his cheeks did warm and redden at the idea of her being “not decent.” He closed his unreliable eyes, sighing and leaning his head against the doorframe. “Please. I just want to know if you’re alright.”

As soon as he said the words out loud, he realized his foolishness. Of course she wasn’t alright! How could she be--how could anyone be? Her husband was dead, dead by her brother’s own hand, though he did not think she knew it yet. His hands shook, and he clenched one into a fist at his side. Once again, he pictured breaking down the door, watching the wood splinter into pieces to allow him to reach Emma on the other side. He imagined Frank Stringfellow, still alive and whole but now dripping blood onto the pristine carpet of Mansion House Hotel, an imagined wound from Henry, smashing his fist into the other man’s smug face--

“Henry?”

Emma’s voice, timid and unsure, broke him out of his reverie. The spectre of Frank Stringfellow vanished from his mind’s eye and Henry sank against the doorframe, feeling exhausted as the events of the past few days seemed to catch up with him all at once. “I’m here,” he whispered, too softly for Emma to hear. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I’m right here, Emma. I’m not going anywhere.”

_ Not anywhere, not again. I won’t abandon you. Not this time. _

Years ago, a vow he had made had kept him from following his heart all the way to Emma Green. Now, under the same roof where he had rebuked her, he made another vow, that he would watch over her always, in whatever way he could.

Even if it meant not being with her the way he dreamed he could.

“It’s going to be alright, Emma,” he said quietly, leaning his head against the door again. The wood cooled his skin, warmed with worry and longing, but he still wished that it was her gentle hand on his brow instead of the cold, unfeeling door. “You’re going to be fine...”

He heard a strange sound then, a faint and familiar melody echoing through the darkened halls and making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. At first he thought that it was Emma singing the soft lullaby, and his heart lurched with worry again. But after a moment, he realized that the voice was not coming from Emma’s room, but rather elsewhere in the hotel, carrying through the deserted hallway. The voice sounded familiar in a way that he could not quite place, but one thing was certain--it was not Emma’s voice.

Henry wasn’t sure if he was comforted by that realization.

_ “Hush little baby, don’t say a word… _ ”

Not for the first time since this strange affair had all begun, since he had received that invitation in the mail, Henry wondered if he was losing his mind.

“Henry?”

“Yes, I’m here,” Henry said, closing his eyes and rubbing them with his hands, as if trying to clear his vision would also cause the strange voice he had heard to cease. He rubbed them so hard that colors blurred together behind his lids, and when he opened his eyes, he had to blink back the tears that his harsh movements had caused. “Do you--do you need me to get you anything?”

“I...I think...why don’t you come inside?”

“What?” Henry asked stupidly, staring at the closed door in disbelief. Hadn’t she said not a moment ago that she wasn’t decent for company? Surely nothing had changed while he was preoccupied with his failing vision and ghostly voices that weren’t there…

“I want you to. Come in. It’s all right.”

\-----------------

After the arrest of Jimmy Green, the party had broken up. So much the better, in Anne’s view.

Samuel and Doctor Foster remained in the ballroom, dealing with the partner of the Pinkerton detective who had arrested Jimmy and carted him away. Doctor Hale and his missus had vanished in the chaos, and Charlotte had elected herself to break the news to the staff that their employer had been arrested on charges of the murder of his brother-in-law.. Anne didn’t envy her that job, although privately she wasn’t sure if the staff would mourn the arrest of James Green Jr. any more than they had the murder of Silas Bullen.

After leaving Emma in her bath with the promise to return with fresh clothes, Anne had gone to check on Mary and help her out of her own ruined gown. With her husband downstairs and otherwise occupied, Anne was sure that Mary would be grateful for the assistance, and she wanted to speak to her anyway. It was Mary who told Anne about the Pinkerton’s arrival and the subsequent arrest of the eldest Green, and Anne was both grateful and saddened to have missed all the excitement. “I should have liked to see him carted away in disgrace from the hotel he’s poured everything into,” she mused as she helped Mary into a simple dress, leaving the stained ballgown in a heap on the floor. “Confessed to murder and everything! There goes all of Alice Squivers’ plans for selling the place, after all the time and energy she put into rebuilding its reputation.”

“She certainly didn’t seem pleased,” Mary agreed. “In fact, she was rather frantic. And that was before her brother was led from the hotel in chains.”

“She wanted to be the talk of the town, and she certainly got her wish,” Anne said frankly. 

“There. Good as new. Shame about the dress, though.”

Mary regarded the heap of fabric on the floor with a peculiar look. “Serves me right, I suppose. I do fear history is destined to repeat itself here, at least in some ways.”

“What do you mean?”

“Never mind--nothing to trouble you with.”

The door opened then, and both women looked up as Jed Foster strode in and slammed the door behind him. He sighed heavily and collapsed into a chair, sprawling across it like a child. Mary, with Anne’s help--she had slipped back into her old nursing habits as easily as changing her dress--sat down on the bed across from him. “How is everything?”

“I’ve had to give Alice Squivers a mild sedative. She was going on about disgracing her father’s legacy, and I thought it would be best for all involved if she rested. She didn’t want to take it when I was there, but her husband promised to administer it once she settled a bit. Our friend with the Pinkertons has taken statements from myself and Samuel, and might seek the rest of us out later. I offered to gather everyone in the parlor, but he advised against it. As far as I know, Jimmy Green is still insisting that he had nothing to do with Bullen’s murder, although having confessed to Stringfellow’s, I can’t imagine it will be easy for him to prove his innocence on that front.”

“Perhaps he didn’t do it, though,” Mary mused. “It seems to me that Jimmy Green would have very little to gain from Silas Bullen’s death, especially if he wanted to preserve the reputation of the hotel long enough for the sale to go through. Why kill Bullen and draw unnecessary attention to himself, his family, his business dealings?”

Jed shrugged. “Why confess to the killing of your brother-in-law on the night of a ball when half of Alexandria society is in attendance? James Green Jr. has never been known for his subtlety or finesse of social situations.” 

“No, that was his sisters’ domain,” Mary said thoughtfully.

“Remember what Bridget said,” Anne piped up. “Bullen must have had dealings with all sorts of nefarious characters over the years. Maybe Jimmy was telling the truth--maybe he had nothing to do with Bullen’s death.”

“But if he was working with Bullen on the side, and things went sour, then he would have had something to gain from his death. I feel like there’s something that we’re missing here, some leaf we have yet to turn over. And where does Frank Stringfellow fit into all of this?”

“Not to speak ill of the dead, but I find myself quite unable to care about Frank Stringfellow’s motivations for anything, really,” Jed said flatly. “I doubt anyone in this room will miss him.”

“Mary’s right though. Something isn’t adding up. There’s something that we’re missing.”

“The Pinkertons are involved now. Why interfere with their work?”

“One might argue that if the Pinkertons were capable of doing their jobs properly, they would have done so sooner, and we would not have not one but two dead bodies under this roof. Or wherever Bullen’s misbegotten corpse ended up.”

“What are you suggesting, Anne?” Jed asked, sounding almost amused.

“I want to take a look around. Check the kitchens again, the pantry, that wretched cave belowstairs where Bullen used to conduct his business. See if there’s anything to be found that might begin to make things add up, or at least point us in the right direction.”

“So you want to snoop,” Jed finished, exchanging a glance with his wife.

“If you want to use such an ugly word, then yes.”

The Fosters looked concerned, but Anne was already standing up, her mind made up. “And no time like the present to get started. With most of the Greens otherwise occupied, I’ll have the run of the place. I’ll report back to you with any findings.”

“Be careful, Anne,” Mary said, her voice grave. “Something isn’t right about all of this. I fear none of us under this roof will be safe until we’ve figured this out.”

Part of Anne wanted to make a quip about “never knowing that Mary cared,” but it didn’t seem like the time nor place for sarcasm. Mary was genuinely concerned for Anne’s welfare, and it was touching. “I’ll be fine,” she said, her tone brisk but sincere. “Don’t worry about me. I always do manage to land on my feet. And if, in fact, Jimmy Green is responsible for both murders, then surely there’s no danger in me wandering the halls of the hotel.”

Jed didn’t look convinced. “I could go with you--”

“You’d just slow me down,” Anne said with a wicked smile. “But if you’d like to wait up, I can come straight here with any findings once I’m finished. We’ll have a cup of tea--I’ll even bring a treat,” she added, thinking of the flask stashed in her luggage upstairs, or perhaps one of the ones she had secreted away during her nursing days here...

“This isn’t a game, Anne,” Mary said quietly.

Anne thought for a moment before reaching out and laying her hand on top of Mary’s. “I’ll be careful. I promise.”

She left the Fosters and stepped back out into the darkened hallway. The gas lamps had been dimmed, and the shadows seemed to lengthen ominously as she walked. In spite of herself, Anne felt goosebumps begin to rise on her exposed skin, and she wished she’d had the good sense to take along a shawl.

A shadow moved out of the corner of her eye, and Anne bit back a cry of fright until her vision focused enough to recognize the figure. “Mrs. Diggs!” she cried, her hand on her heart. “You scared the life out of me!”

“Forgive me. Mrs. Morris.” In the light of the lamp she held clutched in her hand, Charlotte’s face looked grim, a different Lady with the Lamp than Anne was used to. “I didn’t mean to startle you, but I didn’t think it wise for any of us to wander alone.”

“You sound exactly like Mary. But perhaps not,” Anne agreed, “even if the murderer is behind bars for the time being.”

“Something about that ‘confession’ doesn’t sit right with me, least from what Samuel told me. I think there’s more at play here.”

“There’s always more at play,” Anne said, sounding weary. “But I do think you’re right. I was just on my way to take another look at some of our departed steward’s old stomping grounds. The kitchen and that dreadful excuse for an office of his. Perhaps there’s something there that one of us overlooked.”

“I’ll come with you,” Charlotte said, not giving Anne any opportunity to refuse. Anne nodded, more than a little grateful for the company. Her heart still pounded in her chest after the fright that Charlotte had given her, and the comfort of having another person beside her in the dark meant more to her than perhaps Charlotte knew.

They said not a word as they walked, although a time or two Anne swore she heard a faint singing coming through the walls, or the unmistakable sound of three sets of footsteps instead of just two. She trudged onward, determined not to be afraid. Anne had had very few reasons to feel afraid under this roof, and she did not intend to start now.

Finally, they reached the room that Bullen had commandeered during his time as hospital steward. The room hadn’t changed much since the last time Anne had set foot inside. A dank, musty smell permeated the air, and all the lamps in the world did not seem sufficient to penetrate the gloom. If any room in Mansion House was likely to be haunted, Anne Hastings Morris would put her money on this one.

Was she imagining the chill in the air? She exhaled, half-expecting to see her breath as she did so, like she had the day she and Louisa had gone out to make snow angels after a harsh blizzard.

“I’ll look over here,” Charlotte said, taking her lamp and much of the light with her. Anne wanted to call out, to make her stay by her side, but she nodded and reached for a thick black ledger lying on the nearby table. A quick flip through yielded nothing more interesting than a list of accounts, and she set it aside in frustration. Another book, thinner and apparently used for grocery orders--some of them written in a spidery, childish hand that might belong to Leah or one of the other servants--joined it on the pile. “Any luck?” she called out to Charlotte over her shoulder.

“Nothing yet. I’m going to try the kitchen. I won’t be far.”

Charlotte’s footsteps retreated, and Anne reached out and opened a drawer on Bullen’s sad excuse for a desk. She wrinkled her nose at the smell of old tobacco amidst the other odors of the room. “Disgusting,” she remarked to no one in particular.

She heard a creak behind her, a footfall on the stair. “Charlotte?” she called out absently, but there was no answer.

“ _ Hush little baby, don’t you cry…” _

The familiar words of the lullaby made Anne’s blood run cold again, the faint strains growing louder as she rifled through the drawer. “Charlotte!”

“I’m right here. It’s all right. I may have found something.”

“I’ll be right there,” Anne called back, about to shut the drawer when something caught her eye.

At first she was ready to dismiss it as a simple trick of the light, the way the wood seemed warped and discolored on one side of the drawer. But when she ran her hand along the wood, and found the place where it did not quite fit with the rest of it, she felt a surge of triumph. A false bottom!

She lifted it easily to reveal a cache of envelopes, all opened, seemingly all in the same hand. The writing looked vaguely familiar to her, but she didn’t have time to ponder that. She took a handful, stuffing some down the front of her bodice for safekeeping, the others clutched in her fist. “Charlotte, I--”

There was movement behind her, and suddenly Anne found herself held in a fierce grip that she could not break no matter how much she struggled. Her cry of terror was stifled by the filthy rag that immediately covered her mouth and nose, and Anne’s eyes widened as she recognized the scent it held--she would know that scent anywhere. She smelled it in her dreams, sometimes…

Anne’s vision began to grow blurry at the edges as the chloroform took hold. She fought to escape her tormenter’s grasp, but he held her too tight, forcing her to breathe in the wicked fumes. The fight began to drain out of her as the drug took hold.  _ No… _

Darkness took her, and she knew no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens! Or something!
> 
> Many thanks to the wonderful fericita for lovingly betaing this chapter! Also thanks to my inspiration for this chapter, the queen of being chloroformed while solving a mystery, everyone's favorite Titian-haired sleuth, Nancy Drew.
> 
> A few notes:
> 
> I, the author of this chapter, do state the following things to be fact: Anne Hastings is okay! She is temporarily incapacitated by chloroform but will be just fine and probably quite grumpy when she wakes up. Whether she remains where she fell for someone to find or if the culprit will drag her somewhere, is for another author to ponder...
> 
> I'll also leave it to someone else why and how Henry and Emma actually talk, and what happens when she invites him in. Did she find a dressing gown to cover up with? A sheet? Will an eager shipper shove Henry in and bar the door until they work out all their issues and make out? Probably not, but I hope so...


	17. Chapter 17

Once Anne had gone, the Fosters were left to further ponder the situation. From her seat atop the bed, Mary watched her husband progressively gather himself and lean forward, his elbows upon his knees, his toes rhythmically tapping the floor, his eyes fixed upon a crack in it a few feet away. She knew it was a matter of seconds before his brow would crease and his hands would start to move as well; ah! there it was, the steepled fingers coming together again, and again, prodding and palpating the invisible object of his ruminations. She sighed. 

“I was going to suggest you come to bed, but I’ve changed my mind. You’ll be utterly useless.”

That gained her his attention. “What? You’d have me dismissed from your bed already? Was my return to it yesterday so very disappointing? I’ll admit I was out of practice, but can surely make up for it in no time.”

The eager raise of his eyebrows was matched by the corners of her mouth. “You’re fidgeting more than the boys while I try to cut their hair or measure them for clothes. Or during the sermon on Sundays.”

“Them or I? We’re all a rather fidgety bunch in church. It’s so extremely dull… surely we can find a better way to express our spiritual aspirations on Sunday mornings?” 

She preferred not to gratify that with an answer. “What’s troubling you, Jed?”

“What isn’t?” With a groan, he stood up, pacing the room. “Why would Green do it? Why was the Pinkerton man there? And tonight, out of all times? I doubt it was to partake in the gavotte, _aussi charmante fut-elle._ ”

“Maybe someone finally reported your abusive torture of the French language.” Her barb only earned her a scowl. “Well, someone must have called on them. Someone who might have caught the growing dispute between Green and Stringfellow? Or maybe someone feeling remorse about the unenviable fate that has befallen Mr. Bullen?”

“Like who? The hotel owners, whom he so honestly dealt with? The staff he so civilly treated? The ladies he so gallantly courted?” Mirroring his dour expression, she could only shrug.

They contemplated this in silence for an instant, until Jedidiah suddenly perked up. “Oh, but that reminds me: Samuel was off meeting with potential acquaintances of his today. We never got the chance to go over his findings, with that visit to St.Elizabeths and that dratted dinner...”

As the sentence hung suspended into the air, his hand moved to his beard, and he began scratching it pensively. _There he goes again…_

“Go talk to him,” she said. 

“What? Who?”

“See? Utterly useless,” she exhaled, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “ _Samuel._ Go talk to him and set your mind at rest, and then come back to bed.”

“Are you certain?” Jedidiah hesitated. “I do not like leaving you alone here.”

“I’ll lock the door,” she reassured him. “I’ve locked this one many times before, if you recall.” 

“I would rather not, thank you. And you never did with me on the _outside_. I do not like it one bit.”

“Then quit stalling, get to it, and come back quickly with that highly distractible brain of yours unencumbered.” Her lips curved ever so lightly in teasing challenge. “You’ll need all your focus if you plan on improving on yesterday’s performance.”

“Oh, I most certainly do. I’ll be hasty, I promise.” 

There was nothing hasty in the kiss he gave her and in the further promise of what was yet to come, before grabbing his coat and hurrying out the door. She heard the key turn into the lock, his urgent footsteps fading away in the hall, and the room was soon returned to its cushioned, yet discomforting silence. 

Being alone was not a situation she had found herself often in, since marriage and motherhood had become her lot, although one she had at many a time secretly wished for, when that lot became heavy to bear. It was thus an uneasy irony to have this wish granted now, in this homicidal hotel, and not in the familiar comfort and peace of her own bedroom or garden, or the rustic clapboard beach house they liked to escape to in the hot summer days. For all her bravado with her husband, and despite the calls to calm and reason of her rational self, a seed of fear planted itself within her core, and slowly grew.

As exhausted as she was, Mary knew that sleep would not come. It rarely tended to do so when a man had died in her lap, his last words vulgar and bitter and perhaps even intended for her. But why would they be? She’d barely exchanged five words with Frank Stringfellow over the last days, and just as many a decade ago. Who could have been his target?

Wearily, she leaned back against the pillows, taking the book from her bed stand, but after reading the same paragraph thrice and still not making heads or tails of it, she tossed it back. In the stillness of her solitude, she could unexpectedly hear, coming from another room, a faint rhythmic creaking, a melodic hum. Finding some odd comfort in them, she closed her eyes, letting her mind be soothed by them, by trying to make out the words, to recognize the tune, but they were muffled by the walls and spaces between them.

Until suddenly, they stopped, and then, they were not.

“HELP!” came out the cry, followed by a loud bang, and a louder shout. 

How many times had such a call woken her from her sleep in this place, had drawn her from her bed in the middle of the night? How often had she answered it without thinking, both here and then at home, when her little ones had cried out? As back then, she did not think. Had Jedediah been there, he would have ensured she did not move, and stayed safe within the confines of the room. However, he was not, and at once, Mary was on her feet, her back making her regret it immediately, but she paid it no mind.

As fast as her leg would allow her, she grabbed her walking stick, unlocked the door and went out into the hall. Under the dim light of a single gaslight lamp, the way was dark and she saw no one. The call had come from her left, further away from the stairs, to a room hidden around the bend of the corridor. Tediously, she walked its length, and when she was about to turn the corner, there was a blur of blue, a flash of red. A slim figure passed her and was running frantically away, wailing into the night.

“Wait!” Mary called. “Stop! Are you hurt?”

The girl halted and turned. Despite the fear and tears on her young, freckled face, Mary recognized her at once. “Maggie?! What are you doing here?”

“I… I…” she stuttered, before a loud thump in the recessed room made her start and cry louder.

“Who’s in there, Maggie?” Mary asked, reaching to grab the girl’s arm for attention, for comfort, but failing on both counts. Maggie’s eyes were wild, her red curls bouncing as she vehemently shook her head, and attempted to pull herself away. She finally managed it when the crash of broken glass echoed from the room, distracting Mary long enough for her to wrench her arm free.

“The Devil!” she shrieked, and bolted away.

Alone in the darkened hallway, the noisy commotion still emerging from the door left ajar, Mary finally hesitated, the cold vines of fear planted earlier at last managing to snake around her heart. _The Devil? Surely that cannot be. But if not, then who? Or what?_ In her mind, she heard Jedediah’s voice, beseeching her to reason, to abandon this reckless folly and retreat to safety, for their sake and that of their sons. Their beautiful boys. She took a step back, and their sweet faces would have convinced her, had the plaintive cry that next emerged from the room not sounded exactly like theirs.

The image vanished. Even if it was the Devil himself in there, there was also a child, and she could not let it suffer so. Tightening her grasp on her walking stick, she approached the room, and with a deep breath and a quick prayer, pushed the door open.

From her position, she saw a bed, the sheets tossed and bundled; an overturned wooden rocking chair; a small table, toppled over, its contents spilled on the floor, a bottle shattered into a hundred shards; and next to them, in a tussle of white cotton and whiter skin, a child. For the briefest of instants, Mary was relieved to see that there was no devil, man or demon, present with her, but this did not make the vision before her any less scary. 

Although lying on the floor, the girl was not inanimate, far from it: her whole body was overtaken by shakes, convulsing on the carpet, her rigid limbs jerking as if struck by an invisible force. For an instant, Mary was frozen into place, watching it unfold, until the child was moved by a larger tremor that swung her head against the foot of the bed, and jolted the former nurse into action. It was a terrifying sight, such a young girl taken over by such chaotic energy, that she could not blame the servant for taking fright and running off; but it was a sight that she, a nurse and doctor’s wife, had thankfully seen before. 

Quickly, she moved into the room, and shoved the fallen furniture. A blanket was used to sweep away the broken glass as far as she could from the child. The bed she could not budge, so she crouched between it and the girl, trying to move her gently away from harm, pillowing the blows with her body when they landed too close to it.

“Shhh,” she attempted to soothe her, but the child did not seem to hear, lost as she was in her battle against her own body. It was all Mary could do to patiently guard it from any further injury as she fought off her invisible invader.

Progressively, the convulsions diminished in intensity, her limbs gradually losing their distorted rigidity and turning limp. When her head finally fell still, Mary delicatety lifted it to slide a thin pillow under the mess of blonde locks that had long lost their ribbon; as she did so, the pale irises of her eyes rolled back into view, and locked with hers, with a heartbreaking heaviness that was past pain. Eyes that suddenly were coldly familiar, in the way their icy steeliness cut into her soul like a knife. Like a surgeon’s scalpel.

At once, all the pieces fell into place. 

She knew who this child was, and what her being here implied. She was the key to their mystery.

Carefully tending her as she recovered, Mary was still connecting the remaining dots of the puzzle when the door creaked on its hinges, footsteps storming the room, and stopping short in their tracks. When she looked up, their stunned faces, and in one them, most of all, those very same grey-blue eyes, were all the confirmation she needed.

“You.”


	18. Chapter 18

Anne’s head was spinning.

Her eyelids felt impossibly heavy, and she was unable to open them for a few moments. Her stomach churned uncomfortably, and for a moment she worried she might be sick. She swallowed down bile and forced herself to take deep, even breaths, trying to clear the remains of the chloroform from her lungs. Because that’s what the bastard--whoever he was--had drugged her with, the same chemical that Jed Foster had touted as a miracle, the same elixir she had used day in and day out during the war…

Anne Hastings had never expected to ever have it used on her.

The room was still spinning, but Anne’s head was becoming a little less foggy as she struggled to make sense of her surroundings. She could feel cold, damp earth beneath her--her limbs felt almost as heavy---and there was a dank, stale smell to the air that would have caused her to wrinkle her nose if she’d been able to.

Instead, she mouthed a curse. 

Slowly, agonizingly, she tried to pry open her eyes. A few more choice words threatened to spill out of her mouth, but all that she managed was a pained groan. A cold sweat had broken out all across her body, and when Anne finally managed to open her eyes, spots tumbled before her vision for a few moments before she managed to blink them away. 

She was in a small room with a dirt floor, dimly lit by a lamp burning low in the corner. Anne could make out the faint shape of shelves on the walls above her, their contents obscured for the moment. There was another smell in the air underneath the damp, sickly sweet, the smell of rot and decay...and beneath it, another scent, sharp and coppery, that Anne knew far too well.

The smell of blood.

And with a start, she realized where she was, where her assailant had stashed her after he’d incapacitated her. The pantry.

The pantry where they had first discovered Silas Bullen’s corpse.

Blind panic seized her. She struggled to sit up, but that only made her head ache more as the tiny room spun around her. Anne hardly cared. She had to get out of here--she couldn’t stay here--

“Oh, Anne,” a voice said softly, making her jump and then moan again as spots flooded her vision. The voice was familiar, but her head felt stuffed with cotton, and she couldn’t place it. “Why couldn’t you have just let  it  well enough alone?”

Anne squinted, ignoring the white-hot pain behind her eyes, trying to see through the gloom. Across the room, a figure sat hunched in a chair, half-obscured by shadow. He leaned forward, out of the darkness, leaning his elbow on a small table nearby as if this were a casual meeting in a pub. On the table next to him was a flask.

_ Anne’s _ flask. And the hand running fingers idly down the familiar metal...hands she knew so well, she would know them in her sleep, even after all these years. 

All the air in Anne’s lungs seemed to disappear.

“Byron.”

He looked at her and shook his head, something akin to sorrow written across his face. Realization hit Anne like a shock of cold water to the face.

“It was you.”

“It wasn’t supposed to go this far.”

“You bloody buffoon, you---you drugged me!”

“I made sure to give just the right dosage. I never meant to hurt you, Anne, you must know that.”

“You  _ drugged _ me!”

“You didn’t give me a choice!” Byron cried out, startling her. “With your snooping and your whispering with the Fosters--why did you have to meddle in things that do not concern you? Why do you  _ always  _ have to meddle?” He seemed to sneer at her in the darkness. “Always sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong. I suppose I shouldn’t have thought that this time would be different.” To punctuate his words, he reached for the flask and took a swig. Anne wondered how much was left.

Anne stared at him, struggling to, at the very least, sit up on her elbows. She hated lying prone here on the floor before him, hated that he had the advantage over her once again. “What the hell are you talking about?” she gasped, but there was a sinking feeling growing in her chest that told her she already knew.

“The letters were from you,” she said flatly. “I should have recognized your hand. It was you who was corresponding with Bullen.”

“You’re not half the detective that you and Mrs. Foster fancy that you are,” Byron said with a smirk, “but yes, it was me. I told that miserable bastard to burn the letters, but I suppose it just goes to show…”

He reached into his pocket slowly, drawing out a handful of papers. Anne’s eyes widened, her hands immediately, instinctively, going for her own pocket and coming up empty. Byron chuckled and shook his head, already reaching for the lamp.

“Don’t--!”

But he had already touched the first of the letters to the flickering wick, igniting a blaze that soon spread up the paper. He dropped it into a metal bucket at his side, the flames going up. “If you want something done right, you just have to do it yourself.” He shifted, stretching out his wooden leg before him and crossing his arms as he looked at Anne expectantly. She could only watch in disbelief as her evidence turned to ashes before her.

“I am sorry you had to get mixed up in this,” Byron said softly. “It would have been so much better if you’d just left well enough alone.”

Anne tried to sit up again. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s nothing personal, Annie. I need you to know that. I just needed to get you out of the way for a few minutes, before you went blabbing all my secrets to God knows who upstairs. I never meant to hurt you.”

“Yes, you’ve said that,” Anne snapped. “And forgive me if I don’t find it particularly reassuring, seeing as how I’m in a pantry once inhabited by a dead man.” 

But it wasn’t that horrible thought that struck her first. It was a far worse one, and her eyes widened. “Charlotte. What have you done with Charlotte?” she asked, an edge of hysteria in her voice.

“I didn’t touch her,” Byron said, holding up his hands as if in surrender. “I promise.”

“Well, don’t expect me to feel flattered that I was the only one you chose to render incapacitated,” Anne said flatly. Finally, she had managed to work herself into a sitting position. Her head still spun, and there was an ache forming around her tailbone--presumably where Byron had dropped her like a sack of potatoes. As she sat up, she heard a faint crinkling, felt a faint poke in the soft skin beneath her collarbones.

The rest of the letters, the ones she had hidden in her bodice for safekeeping. Byron hadn’t burned all of them.

If she could just get out of the pantry…

But he was sitting with his back to the door, blocking her escape, and Anne needed more information first either way.

“So, you were corresponding with him before he died,” Anne said, her tone almost conversational. “Am I to assume that you sent the man to frighten him in the market, as well?”

Byron’s remaining eye narrowed a bit, then he smiled. “I see Matron’s network of spies is as far-reaching as ever.”

“And did you kill him, too? Or order someone to do the deed? Why, Byron? That’s what I don’t understand. You have a beautiful wife, a successful career--an important promotion on the way, and yet you risk it all for--for  _ Silas Bullen?” _

He scowled. “You wouldn’t understand, Anne.”

“As luck would have it, it seems I’m not going anywhere for the time being. Make me understand.”

Byron sighed heavily, his entire body sinking with the exhalation. All of his earlier bravado seemed to have vanished, and as Anne looked at the man that she had once thought she loved, she found it hard to see him in the creature before her now. “I had to do it, you understand. I never meant for it to go this far, but it had to be done. You don’t know what he was doing--what he was asking of me. He was extorting me--I had no choice. It was for my family, Anne, you have to believe that.”

“Your family? You mean Eliza? She barely even knew Bullen. I don’t--”

“I had to keep her safe.”

“Keep Eliza safe from  _ what _ ?”

“Not Eliza,” Byron cut in, his voice breaking.  _ “Betty.” _

__

Anne blinked, shaking her head in confusion. Whatever she had expected him to say, it certainly wasn’t that. She had no idea who Betty even was, much less her connection to Byron Hale and Silas Bullen. “Betty? What--”

A tiny spark of recognition. Anne suddenly recalled the first night of the Mansion House reunion, her disastrous, agonizing conversation with Mary Foster and Eliza Hale. The subject of children had inevitably been breached (Anne vividly remembered taking a too-large sip of her drink at the time), and after Mary had finished speaking fondly of her boys, Eliza had brought up a little girl, lost several years now, a dreadful case of measles…

_ Betty. _

“Betty, your daughter?” Anne asked, her voice softer now. This conversation was taking a turn she had not seen coming. The Byron before her was a miserable Byron, a Byron defeated--not a Byron she knew how to easily read. She would have to be careful, especially if her suspicions proved correct.

He nodded miserably.

“Yes, Eliza mentioned--it was tragic, what the two of you had to go through, to lose a child so young, but I fail to see what that has to do with--”

  
“Oh, Anne, don’t you see? Haven’t you figured it out yet? Betty isn’t  _ gone. _ ”

“Betty’s alive?” Anne asked, her voice barely a whisper.


	19. Chapter 19

Henry closed the door behind him and kept his eyes on the wooden floor, its grain a headache-inducing blur to his struggling eyes but a safer place to look than directly at Emma. 

Mrs. Stringfellow. 

Who, though a widow now, needed him to not gape at her and instead help her through the tragedy of the past hour. And needed the dressing robe Anne had shoved in his hands as she ran past him, intent on a different errand, telling him to go see what help Emma needed and to take care of her. He wondered if Anne knew that taking care of her was what he longed to do. 

And what he feared most.

Alone, with Emma, after ten years? While she was emerging from a bath?

Her voice called him out of his stupor. “Henry, can I have the robe?”

He extended the dressing robe towards the splash of water, the sound of drops hitting the wooden floor and the sharp intake of breath as she shivered. 

“Thank you,” she said and their hands brushed as she reached for the robe. He turned sideways, then reconsidered and turned so his back was entirely toward her and he was facing the door he had just come through. But he imagined her more clearly than he would have been able to see her, water running down her graceful neck, droplets of it clinging to her eyelashes. The curve of her backside and her long, elegant arms, covered only by the thin cambric of the dressing gown. He shook his head slightly, trying to dislodge the image he had so vividly conjured. 

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” he said, trailing off, unsure if he should call her Emma or Mrs. Stringfellow. He knew which Frank had preferred but it was still a sharp needle to his heart to think of her that way. 

“I’m not sad he’s dead. I’m relieved,” she said and he was so surprised he turned to face her.

“People often find themselves with confusing emotions when dealing with grief,” he managed. He wished he had his Bible inside his coat pocket, that he hadn’t taken it out before heading towards the ballroom. 

“I’m not confused either,” she said. “I’m thinking perfectly clearly. It’s better to be alone than married to him. Jimmy might be an idiot, but he saved me in a way he doesn’t even realize and I’m grateful. I’m more than grateful, actually. I’m… free!”

Henry felt off balance, like he was back at the top step, nervously waiting to see if Jimmy would lose his footing or his own eyesight would cause a plunge down the stairs. Then, he had gripped the bannister. Now, there was nothing to hold onto for support. 

“It’s better to be alone,” she repeated.

“It’s best that I’m alone,” he said, feeling like he was falling. He looked up and heard anger in her voice.

“For who?” 

“For the people I’ll hurt. For the ones who’ve already died.” Her eyes were still on him, and he understood the anger. She was angry he had left to join the 120th New York without speaking about the man at the river and how he had killed him, his rage revealing his darkest struggles. Their kiss. The way he had ignored her afterwards, like she was a temptress or a siren and he had to plug his ears full of cotton to continue work without being dragged down to the depths of the sea. In the tents near battle and in his parish house in Williamstown, he had laid awake and imagined her anger, had imagined his pleas for forgiveness. But as often as he had thought about what to say, he could not form the words now. 

“All of us have seen death, Henry. And -” she paused, mercifully breaking eye contact. When she spoke again her voice was quiet, a slight tremble to it. “I have my own sin to bear on that account. For what Frank has done, for what I knew about and stayed silent on.”

“God will forgive you, Emma.” He took a step towards her, raised a hand to cup her cheek though he let it fall before making contact. “If only you - “

“If only I what? Ask?” Her voice had changed. She was angry again now, though still quiet. “Then why haven’t you?”

“I have. I ask God for forgiveness every day. I’ll ask you too if you let me. Because I am so sorry Emma. So sorry I Ieft without explaining why. So sorry I didn’t forgive myself when it might have meant I had a chance to be with you.” He lifted his hand and this time, he rested it on her cheek. Her skin was cool from the bath and he wiped at tendrils of hair that clung to her cheek, tucking them behind her ear.

“Why did you come?” she whispered.

“Because your sister said you needed me.” He brought his other hand up to her face, holding her like she was fragile though he knew she was not. That if the war and her marriage and this night hadn’t broken her, that nothing would.

Neither of them moved. 

“Do you?” he asked. “Do you need me?” 


	20. Chapter 20

“You. _”_

By all accounts, Mary should have been the one to make that statement, but under the circumstances, and considering who it was she was dealing with, she was not in the least surprised at the reversal. In answer, she only nodded, her eyes moving from the subdued little Maggie quivering by the door, to the imposing yet bewildered figure struck by Eliza Hale, still resplendent in her extravagant violet evening gown. However, the elegant woman did not remain off-guard for long; briskly, she dodged the debris and came to kneel by the child.

“Betty, dove, it’s alright, Mama’s here,” she soothed, her eyes and hands gently taking in her daughter’s state. Momentarily, her face softened in relief, but progressively hardened back into a glowering scowl, of which she threw the full weight at Mary.

“Of course it had to be _you_. Ever the meddler in my family, Nurse Mary.” 

_So much for gratitude, but at least I’ll get honesty._ “I was not meddling. I only meant to help. There was shouting, and dreadful noise, and the poor girl was terrified,” Mary said, gesturing to Maggie, who had not dared to step any further in. “And that was all before I even set foot in this room and did what I could to keep your daughter safe!”

If Eliza was mollified, she did not let it show. “I expect that is all I deserve for trusting the Irish.” Her ire turned to the servant. “Lost your cool, girl? Had a wee bit o’ the drink, did ye, lass?”

“Mrs. Hale-”

Maggie paid Mary’s warning no mind, her eyes dead-set upon the child now at rest. “Is the demon gone, then? Has it given up on her soul?” 

“There is no demon, you Catholic cretin!” 

_“Mrs. Hale!_ That’s enough!” snapped Mary. “Maggie, it was nothing evil, but only a seizure; a brief problem with the brain. You see? It’s passed.”

This appeared to give the other woman pause. “The brain, you say? Most would not. I see Jed remains as interested in neurology as he did back in the day.”

The insinuation stung. “I assure you, I can pursue my own interests.”

“Oh, I assure you… of that, I am very well aware.” 

They stared at each other coldly over the shivering body of the younger girl. Mary tried to hold her ground, square her shoulders, but the adrenaline of the moment gone, at last, her body protested at all the abuse she had forced it through. From her prolonged watch, her spine had sprouted iron rivets across her lower back, her leg morphed into a heavy anchor of pain underneath her. Leaning forward, she shifted her weight and sighed wearily. 

“I did not come here to fight with you, Mrs. Hale. There is honestly nothing I could be less interested in right now than that prospect. Like I already said, I only meant to help. So, may I?” she said, pointing to the bed.

Eliza watched her for a moment, the gears visibly spinning as she evaluated this unexpected offer; she might have done so for much longer had the child not moaned pitifully, and curled onto herself. “Maggie,” she finally called. “Help Mrs. Foster up, pick up this mess, and go.” Relieved for the dismissal, Maggie hastily did as she was bid, after which she half-ran out of the room, her tear-stained apron clutched in her hands.

Holding on to the bedpost for support, Mary pulled back the comforter, smoothed the tangled bedsheets, and when she turned to offer further assistance, saw Eliza gather the motionless child in her arms and lift her up in a practiced motion, exhibiting surprising strength in doing so. Softly, she placed the girl in the bed, adjusting her nightgown, the blankets over her, the tendrils around her ashen face, revealing a red mark on her forehead where it had struck the furniture.

“May I get her some water? A cold compress?” Mary offered upon seeing it.

“You may sit yourself down in that rocking chair, you’ve done quite enough,” Eliza replied brusquely, yet not unkindly. As further insistence, she handed Mary a pillow and throw. “You both need to rest now.”

Stunned at not being as efficiently dispatched as the poor maid, Mary did not challenge it. She slowly lowered herself into the chair, the cushion the most wonderful balm against her lower back, and allowed herself to relax somewhat as she watched Eliza pour water from the jug into the washbasin, wet and wring a cloth, and press it tenderly against her daughter’s forehead. 

A scene she herself had performed countless times, some of them in this very room, and yet had never imagined Eliza Hale as having ever done so. To her own child, much less. 

It was a disconcerting realization, that perhaps she had grossly misjudged this woman, failing to see past the flashy fashions and commanding confidence, past their accidental rivalry and uncomfortable history. Perhaps they had much more in common after all then their love for the same man. 

Perhaps it would now finally be time to put it behind them.


	21. Chapter 21

“Betty’s alive?!”

Byron’s answer was to take another swig from the flask. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, oval-shaped object that Anne dimly recognized as a locket of some kind. He opened it with a faint click and stared down at the contents, smiling faintly. “This is how I like to remember her,” he said, passing the locket to Anne after a moment. She stared at it before accepting it, her hand trembling. “That photograph was taken just before she got sick. She was so fascinated by the camera, asking the photographer all sorts of questions, wanting to know how everything worked. She was so curious, so eager to learn...my sweet Betty.”

The metal of the locket was warm against Anne’s fingers. She looked down, squinting in the dim light at the photograph. A little girl, no more than five, with wide eyes and pale curls and an expression that did indeed strike Anne as curious, even though the solemnity required to properly pose for a photograph. She could see traces of Byron in the little girl’s face--the shape of her nose, the curve of her chin, the way she tilted her head at the camera. But her eyes--they were all Eliza.

“She’s lovely,” Anne said, because that’s what one said when someone showed you a picture of their child.

* * *

“Your daughter is lovely, Mrs. Hale,” Mary opened quietly, bracing for a rebuke. 

There was none, only the barest nod of acknowledgement. Emboldened by it, and by the relief provided from her seat and gentle rocking, she dared to press on. “How old is she?”

“Seven,” came the succinct reply, Eliza’s attention undiverted from her child’s care. The cloth was rinsed once more, its coolness restored, and she pressed it again to the girl’s forehead, eliciting a faint moan in return.

“Oh, just like our eldest, Elias. I’m enjoying it quite a lot, the greater autonomy, the interesting conversations.” This offering did not merit a reply from her would-be interlocutor. Visibly, bridges to this woman would not be built on the pillars of small talk. How different she was from the one who had swigged sherry only two nights ago, switching subjects as rapidly as Mary’s children changed games, from fashions’ jacks to gossip’s cowboys and Indians. Tonight, despite her out-of-place elegance, the lady before her did not appear to suffer such foolish topics. 

Unsure of her next attempt, Mary waited, until the washcloth was returned to the basin, the swelling satisfactorily prevented. The child tucked in and asleep, Eliza finally seemed to settle somewhat as well, her proud shoulders slouching ever so slightly, her stern expression softening at the corners of her features. Sensing an overture in the weariness of her reluctant companion that had not been there before, Mary knew the time for pleasantries was well past. Perhaps a measure of New England frankess would prove successful where Southern civilities had failed.

“Has she always had such episodes?” she risked to ask.

Eliza’s eyes briskly darted to her and back, and she shook her head. “No. Only since contracting measles, a few years ago. Which led to encephalitis. Water on the brain, they say. I do not know why they do, it sounds so crude and horrid.”

The former nurse had encountered both terms; in both cases, the patients had not survived. “I'm sorry... That must have been terrible.”

* * *

“It’s a terribly cruel disease, the measles. I suppose I don’t have to tell you that. To me, it seemed like a monster that had come to devour my girl until there was nothing left.”

With a last look at the tintype, Byron took the locket back and along with it, a heavy swig of the flask. “When she got sick, Anne--you cannot imagine the agony I felt. To have all of my medical knowledge at my fingertips, to know what she was feeling and why and still be powerless to take away her pain and fear. You cannot imagine how it felt--” 

“Do not presume to tell me what I can and cannot imagine, Byron Hale,” Anne said, her voice sharp. It was as if Byron’s words had caused a dam to break inside her heart. “ _Do not_ sit there and look me in the eye and tell me that I do not know how it feels to watch a loved one suffer and be unable to help.” 

Her throat was growing tight, and suddenly she was not in the Mansion House pantry but in Louisa’s sickroom, the room where she had taken her last breath. She was laying in bed beside her husband, watching his chest rise and fall, praying to a God she wasn’t even sure she believed in to please, just give them one more day together. 

“I _know_ what that feels like. I know grief. I have buried a sister and a husband, Byron. Do not tell me that I cannot understand your _agony_ just because I have no child.”

Byron, to his credit, at least had the decency to look chastised. He ducked his head, apparently the closest thing to an apology that she was going to get, and offered her the flask. After a moment, Anne took it.

“We tried everything--sent for every doctor we knew--nothing worked. I was so certain that she was going to leave us...and then, by some miracle, she began to recover. Her fever broke. She was able to open her eyes and look at us again. The rash went away. We thought that she would get better. We really did.” He looked up at her, his eyes haunted. “But...she wasn’t the same. Not ever again.”

“There were complications,” Anne said. It wasn’t a question.

* * *

From her position next to the washbasin, Eliza nodded pensively. “It was quite terrifying, at first. Then, difficult. Now, different. But mostly silent… so very silent.”

“How do you mean?” 

Eliza grew silent herself then. With a swish of silk, she smoothed her cascading bustles to sit on the edge of the bed, readjusting the folds as she organized her thoughts, debating which ones could be shared, and which ones should. When she finally spoke, it was with a distance Mary had never heard from her. “Betty was so… alive. She was always running around, dancing, talking. Singing… Byron sang to her from the moment she was born. Even before,” she added, her hand absentmindedly moving to the phantom swell of her stomach. “She knew all his songs by the time she turned two. She could play some simple ones on the piano at three. Wrote some of her own at four. But by the time she turned five, all music was gone. The illness took away most of her hearing. All the… how did you put it? Ah, the interesting conversations.”

Mortified, Mary recoiled in her seat. “Oh, I'm so sorry… I didn’t…”

“Don’t,” Eliza interrupted her, with a wave of her hand. She then reached to take her daughter’s little limp one into her own, wiping the blood beading from a small cut that had been missed in her first inspection. “The greater autonomy, gone too. Everything is slower now; her speech, her learning, her movements. She gets so frustrated about it, understandably. It leads her to fits. She never threw a tantrum as a toddler, but now, we rarely go a day without one. On the other days, she’ll be very sullen, detached, shut into her inner world, behind unbreachable walls. Those are even harder.”

This was spoken from someone who had visibly, painfully been on both sides of such walls. Something Mary herself was all too familiar with. “How ever do you manage?” she asked softly.

* * *

“We managed to keep it quiet at first. People knew she had been ill, and that she was recovering. For a while, it was so easy to pretend that everything was fine. But even in those first few days of her recovery, I knew something wasn’t right. Still, we thought we could keep on pretending. Plenty of children take longer to convalesce--we thought we could keep her quiet and out of sight for a while and she would start to feel better. I still thought I could fix her, because I am an arrogant fool. And then the rumors started. Just little whispers, at first. Never did find out who started them--her physician, or one of the maids, or even a neighbor who might have seen something through a window. But nevertheless, word soon spread. Word that Doctor Hale’s daughter had gotten over the measles, but it had left her funny in the head. That she had trouble walking, speaking. That she had fits. That she--” his voice broke--”that she couldn’t hear any more.”

“And the rumors were true?” Anne asked delicately.

“Not all of them. But those three--they were. They said that Betty--my Betty--had gone mad. They were so cruel--the things they said about her--”

“People are always quick to condemn things that they don’t understand,” Anne agreed. “That must have been very difficult.”

“People began to talk--and not just behind our backs. Before we knew it, Eliza found herself shunned from polite society. No one wanted to be seen with the mother of a mad invalid, it seemed. People would cross the street to avoid walking next to her. My patients lost their faith in me, because why would they trust a man who couldn’t even heal his own daughter to heal them? They dwindled to almost nothing. Oh, I had a few patients and friends who stuck around, sure. But it wasn’t enough. Almost overnight, it was like Sacramento turned its back on us.

“Eliza tried to pretend it didn’t bother her, of course. When her friends refused to see her, she told me that it was for the best anyway, because now she could spend more time with Betty. When the dressmaker wouldn’t work with her, Eliza laughed in her face and said that she’d rather wear rags than be seen in clothes made by someone so intolerant. When people would taunt her about Betty, she would hold her head high and walk right by, or else she would give them a tongue-lashing so thorough they’d think twice before they said another word against our girl. She was Betty’s fiercest champion. But I saw how it wore on her, having the life she had worked so hard for taken from her like this. And money was tight--no patients, no income, you see. But the final straw came one day when Eliza tried to take Betty for a walk.” 

“Oh no,” Anne murmured.

“Some boys cornered them, saying awful things, I’m not sure what, Eliza wouldn’t tell me. They--they threw things. They tried to throw a stone at my little girl. Luckily, it missed and hit Eliza instead. Or she shielded her. She would never say. No one was hurt, but it scared Betty terribly. I like to think that it made her mad, to tell you the truth--that seeing those boys hit her mama made her angry. Anyway, she started to scream, and thrash, and…”

He sighed heavily. “And we couldn’t stay there anymore,” he finished, his voice flat. “We were no longer welcome. It wasn’t safe for Betty. And if the town didn’t want Betty, then we didn’t want them.


	22. Chapter 22

Byron leaned back in his chair, falling silent for a moment. Anne watched but did not press him, knowing he would continue his tale when he was ready. Her mind was spinning with all of these new revelations--the fact that the Hales had lied about their daughter’s death, that Byron had gone to such great lengths to keep up the deception...that Anne may have shared a bed, years ago, with a man who was now a murderer.

Finally, he spoke. “I had failed her once, I couldn’t fail her again. I sent letters to every contact I could think of. Everyone I’d ever befriended in the Army, anyone I’d worked with who I thought might help me find a new position. Los Angeles, Denver, Washington City, New York. I even thought to send Jed Foster a letter, if you can believe it. But in the end, the answer was simple. I had kept in contact with the doctor in Selma who saved my life, you see. He already knew about Betty and had said that if we ever needed anything, we could ask. He had a bit of experience with cases like hers and he’d recently gotten a new position. At the Alabama Hospital for the Insane.” He glanced at Anne, as if waiting for a reaction.

Anne only blinked. “I’ve heard they have a good facility down there,” was all she said. ”And surely they were better equipped to deal with Betty’s condition than anyone out west would have been.” If he was waiting for shock or horror from her, then he would be left wanting.

* * *

"You sent your daughter to an insane asylum?!” Mary could not help but cry out; this made Eliza turn to face her, her indignation failing to hide the vulnerability underneath.

“No! We moved to Alabama to place her in the best mental hospital her father knew of, so she would have proper care, and treatment, and hope for a better prognosis. The superintendent, Dr. Bryce, is at the forefront of neurological research, and he has helped her tremendously. And she was truly happier there; she made friends, and the other doctors and nurses were kind and competent. We visited her every day.  Leaving her there,  not having her home with us, was the hardest thing we’ve ever had to do, bu t it was what was best for her,” she insisted.

There was something in her pitch, in the persistent smoothing of the ruffled silk in her lap, of the curls at her nape as she spoke, that made Mary doubt as to who it was she was truly trying to convince.

“But was it also what was best for you?” she softly replied. “And Colonel Hale?”

Eliza’s lips pressed together, almost vanishing in the thin line; when they reappeared, they were swollen, bruised, their red a match to the mark upon Betty’s forehead. “Well, if this is where this conversation is headed, we’re going to need reinforcements.”

“Reinforce-” Mary began, before Eliza stood, crossed the room to a small cabinet, and threw open the door to reveal various bottles of spirit. 

“Sherry, brandy or whisky?” she turned back to ask, in a tone that made it very clear no other options were being offered; Mary found she actually did not mind it in the least.

“Um… brandy, please.” 

There was a glimmer of appreciation in Eliza’s steely gaze. “I would not have thought you to be a strong spirit type,” she admitted as she grabbed the crystal decanter.

There were so many well-deserved comebacks that jumped to Mary’s quick mind, but she dismissed them all. “It’s a strong spirit type of night,” she simply shrugged.

“Quite right you are, Mrs. Foster.” Eliza poured out two glasses three fingers high, and walked back to hand Mary one, clinking it lightly with her own before bringing it to her lips. 

“So, Tuscaloosa…” she exhaled, before taking a deep draught of the amber liquid, savoring it pensively, and swallowing with a wince as the alcohol scalded its way down. “ Things were...not as easy as they were in Sacramento.  In California, before… everything happened, there was a single answer to both your questions. But not so in Alabama.”

* * *

  
“Betty was so much better there than she would have been if we’d stayed in California. But Eliza and I... well, we tried to manage. Eliza felt stifled, trapped in the same sort of life she had gone to California to avoid. She found the women there shallow and vapid and utterly not worth her time. I was still reluctant to practice medicine, even in a new place. Eliza and I quarreled about it, especially when I rejoined the Army.”

“She wasn’t happy with that?”

A wry sort of half-smile crossed his scarred face. “She’d had enough of being a military wife when she was married to Foster. She told me that long ago. I knew it, and I still did it anyway, against her wishes. She was right to be angry with me, really. God knows by then I’d done more than enough to deserve it. We fought...more than we should.” His gaze flickered back up to Anne, and for a moment he looked uncomfortable. “Perhaps I shouldn’t be telling you this part.”

With a roll of her eyes, Anne replied, “You’ve told me this much, Byron. You can’t stop now. I promise, the inner workings of your marriage are the least of my concerns right now.”

“Tuscaloosa did wonders for Betty. And my work was going well. But for Eliza and I...well. By the time the Surgeon General position was offered, we were at our wit’s end. It seemed like a good time for a change. It would mean removing Betty from a place that she had come to love, but I had begun to hear good things about facilities around Washington City. I talked to Eliza, and she agreed a fresh start would be good for all of us..."

* * *

  
Mary watched as Eliza made steady progress on her drink, her own still two-thirds full. She had seated herself on the bed once more, for what little comfort it provided, as any attempt at increasing was efficiently prevented by an abundance of whalebone and masterful couture.

“So there we were,” Eliza began once more, “Faced with yet another cross-country move to make. Another hope that this would be it, our final destination, the place where we would finally get to be at peace. You would think I’d be used to it now, after so many times, but no; it is always as hard to rip yourself out, start over again, even if for once, we were coming back to a familiar place, closer to our families…. although, sadly, their attitude towards Betty is not any more evolved than that of the two-faced idiots we left in Sacramento…” Her voice trailed off, suddenly brittle, but she did not allow herself to linger on the matter. Rather, she took another sip, and Mary saw her hands shake slightly, the drop of liquid she wiped for the corner of her mouth.

“So, anyhow…” Eliza continued, recalling Mary’s attention. “Byron started making inquiries into psychiatric institutions in Virginia, and through his contacts and Dr. Bryce’s references, we eventually settled on St. Elizabeth’s, and began making arrangements for her eventual transfer once we were settled.  Then it became a matter of finding ourselves a new home close to the hospital, of learning about the various Washington City neighborhoods, of choosing one that would be fashionable yet discrete. Although those trips were a blessing as they showed us exciting glimpses of what our new life could be, we did miss Betty most terribly, and the hotels we stayed at were often a disappointment .”

“Then, one day, by total happenstance, I ran into Alice Squivers while shopping in Washington City. We went for tea, she caught me up on local society, and warmly welcomed us to stay at Mansion House whenever we would next be in town. We’ve had our suite reserved here ever since. The Squivers have shown themselves to be good and loyal friends, and Alice’s brother, a kind host.” She paused for a second, with a forlorn look at her daughter. “But we never told them about Betty.”

“Why ever not?”

Eliza shook her head resolutely. “We could not risk it. Not again. Not our last chance at life, happiness. And she was safer and happier in the home she’d loved since her illness took her from ours. The home we’d drag her ourselves out of soon enough.”

Mary said nothing further, but her eyes must have betrayed her inner thoughts, for Eliza leaned towards her, a peek of emotion suddenly marking her speech. “We love our daughter, more than anything. But that does not mean we do not miss our little girl. The hospitals can help us find her once more. Would you not do the same for your boys?”

Mary looked at the child, now so much smaller than she had first appeared when the convulsions had stiffen and overtaken her body. Smaller than Elias, but of an age with him. What would she do, if he were stuck with the same fate? If his strong body was thus weakened; his curious, sharp mind, dulled and dimmed? She knew she could never bear it.

“That and more,” she agreed. “Anything to get them back.”

Eliza nodded. “Then I hope that for her sake, you will also understand all the “more” we’ve had to go through, once that despicable man entered our lives.”


	23. Chapter 23

Instead of answering, Emma leaned towards him until their faces were inches away and she could feel his breath on her lips. She brought her hands to his shoulders and her lips to his and kissed him. It wasn’t the hungry kiss they had shared at the river, the one that had started like a question and that she had answered with her mouth open and her hands on his chest.

This kiss was her answer. 

Maybe she didn’t need him, but she wanted him. 

His hands dropped to her waist as she pulled him closer and she could feel the heat of them through the thin dressing gown as their kiss deepened. Her skin had been damp and cool from the bath, but now she felt a heat that warmed her in every place their bodies touched. She felt wild with freedom and desire. 

This was Henry. 

And as reckless as it was to kiss a man with her husband dead but not yet gone, she did it anyway. She had taken so little in the past ten years, had been given even less. So she planned to take what Henry was willing to give, whatever comfort, whatever passion, whatever answer to questions that had been unasked and unanswered for the past ten years.

And even in the place where she had seen so much death, had heard spirits singing and had her own husband die in her lap, she felt safe. She felt content. It might mean her ruin, but wasn’t she already ruined? 

His hands moved from her waist, spread wide and pressing firmly around her and moving up as if memorizing her shape or matching it to his memory. She arched into him and sighed as his hands reached the underside of her breasts, pressing against him when he suddenly stopped and pulled her into a tight hug, tucking his chin on top of her head and breathing deeply. 

“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” he said.

“Me too, Henry. So much.” She burrowed her head further into his chest, holding him as tightly as he held her. “So why stop?”

They breathed deeply together and in the silence could hear shouting in the street as the doors to the hotel opened and closed with the departing guests.

“They need us downstairs,” he said, sounding pained. “I should help you dress.”


	24. Chapter 24

When Byron spoke again, his voice was faster, more frantic as he relayed his story to Anne. “I’ll never fully understand how Bullen was able to find out about Betty--did he overhear Eliza and I talking about St. Elizabeths? Maybe he intercepted a letter between Eliza and Alice that mentioned a passing interest in local institutions for the insane? I don’t know. That man was like a cockroach, always underfoot, always listening, impossible to get rid of. However he did it, he learned our secret. And all hell broke loose.”

He sighed, looking at the flask once again. “May I?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, take it all,” Anne’s tone was exasperated, eager for him to get back to his tale.

He knocked the flask back and took a deep drag. Anne wondered how much liquor was even left. 

“Bullen sent me a letter, saying he was in possession of some rather damning information about me and demanding a large sum of money to keep quiet. I ignored him, of course. More letters came, each one more threatening than the last, and each time the amount he demanded kept going up. Finally, during our last visit to Mansion House before we came here for the announcement, he cornered me in a downstairs hallway. There he played his final card. He said he knew all about Betty, all about what had happened in Sacramento, and wouldn’t it be a shame if people were to find out that the new surgeon general had a daughter in an asylum. He threatened to ruin us, ruin everything--my career, Eliza’s reputation, Betty’s entire life. I had no choice. He had proof, a written statement from one of the nurses at her asylum, even! There was nothing I could do. I had to agree to his terms.”

Another deep sigh escaped his lips. “I paid him weekly, at first. A great deal of money, but not the whole sum at once, not so much that anyone might be suspicious. But he only demanded more and more. It was getting out of control. I couldn’t do it anymore--he had to be taken care of.” 

* * *

“There was no end to his greed,” Eliza explained.

She had stood to fill her glass once more, unnecessarily topping off Mary’s in the process, and was now pacing the room. “It was taking a toll on Byron; he did not want me to worry about it, but I could see it, hear it in the little comments here and there about our other expenses, on whether it was truly necessary, couldn’t we maybe do without? When he suggested we look into houses that were further from the hospital, from the city itself, because they would not be as pricey, then I knew we could not live this way. One way or another, our life would be destroyed if we allowed that man to extort us so.”

“So what did you do?” Mary asked.

“I pleaded with Alice to dismiss him from the hotel, and she did try her best, but her brother was intent on keeping him around. Found that uncouth brute useful, somehow. Perhaps he was the one sent to do the dirty business the gentleman owner could not be sullied with.”

Eliza paused by the vanity, wavering slightly in the sudden stillness, but with a quick glance into the mirror, straightened herself with a decided toss of her head. “So on our last trip, I took matters into my own hands; late that last evening, I went down to his office, to plead with him, in hopes that a mother’s love might sway him… and if not, that perhaps a woman’s touch would.”

“Oh, Mrs Hale...” Mary attempted, cringing down into her seat.

“You just hold that thought,” Eliza interrupted. “Unfortunately, by the time I got there, he appeared to have already found someone to help in that respect … although that “someone” was definitely a few years short of qualifying as a woman.”

“Dear Lord...”

“No, no, wait still... Thankfully, I intervened before things got even more unsavory, and the poor girl managed to scamper off. Not much differently than she did tonight.”

“Good God in Heaven!” Mary exclaimed, clasping the rocking chair’s armrests. “Maggie?!”

“There you go,” Eliza said, bowing her head over her raised glass. “Yes, little Maggie, in the clutches of that disgusting creature... I would never have thought anyone in this fine city could ever sink so low. How wrong I was! Once the shock of it passed, I threatened, and bartered, and finally, begged with that wretch of a man; that is what he seemed to thrive on, that power over the week, the meak, the helpless. So beg I did, and offered him whatever he wanted, in whichever currency he preferred, as long as he left the children and invalids alone. So tickled was he by it, he even let me go, barely touched, with my word that I’d come back when we’d return to Alexandria.”

Brandy or not, Mary felt that the conversation was reaching a dangerous point of no return. “Mrs. Hale, please. I do want to help you, if I can, but I don’t think you should be telling me this.”

“Yes, Eliza. Do listen to our dear Mrs. Foster. Haven’t you caused enough trouble as it is?”

So intent were they on Eliza’s tale, neither had heard the door open, and the familiar, stooped figure walk in, in a grey dress expertly crafted and perfectly fitted, yet existing firmly outside the realm of modern fashions. At the sight, Mary’s eyes grew wide, but Eliza’s narrowed, and she crossed her arms defiantly.

“I was wondering how long that foolish girl of yours would take to fetch you, Bridget. About damn time, too.”


	25. Chapter 25

“Things couldn’t continue on this way," Byron said, stating the obvious. "Bullen would never be satisfied, that much was certain. We had to find another way to deal with him.”

“Murder,” Anne said dryly. 

“You say that as if every person under this roof hadn’t wished Silas Bullen dead at least once,” Byron said, matching her tone. “I offered him one last chance--a great deal of money, on the condition that he’d leave Alexandria and never pester us again. He refused. So, yes, we had to resort to...other means.” He looked up. “If you had a child, Anne, I promise you’d understand.”

That line again. Anne thought to protest again, but she was so close to unraveling it all, she was afraid that one more outburst from her would make Byron abandon his confession.

“We needed him out of the way once and for all. The question was just how to do the deed. We knew that the only thing he cared about more than money...was the touch of a woman.” Anne made a disgusted noise, but Byron carried on. “Like honey in a flytrap, we lured him here, where we thought he’d go unnoticed for at least a little while.”

He sighed. “You see how well that turned out.”

“So which of you did the deed? You or Eliza?”

“Oh, Anne. Isn’t it obvious? Haven’t you figured it out yet?” He smiled at her indulgently, as if to a child, and Anne suddenly felt very, very vulnerable. She was trapped in the pantry with a murderer, after all--no matter how noble he felt his crusade may be.

“You?” she guessed. “Or Eliza. No, wait, you did it together.”

“You really make a far better nurse than you do detective.” 

“Byron. Please.”

“It was me, of course. I did it.”

But Anne wasn’t convinced. “Bullen was able to crawl out of this room after he was attacked. You’re a surgeon. You would have known exactly what to do.” He was covering up for his wife. She was sure of it.

His mouth twisted into a grimace. “I may have let my anger get the better of me. Made me sloppy. Careless. Nevertheless, I did what I had to do to keep my family safe. And I always will.” With one last swig from the flask, Byron began to stand up. Anne felt a pang of cold fear. 

“Where are you going?”

“Back up to join the party, of course. Or what’s left of it. Oh, Anne, dearest, please don’t think there’s any hard feelings. I’ve simply told you too much to let you go, you understand.”

Although she was still dizzy, Anne tried to scramble backwards on her hands and knees. Her eyes were wide with panic, her heart beating wildly against her chest. “What are you saying? Do you--you mean to kill me too?”

Byron looked scandalized. “What? No! How could you even think such a thing? No, I’m simply going to leave you here for the night. I’ll be back at dawn and we’ll get you on the earliest train back to New York. I’ll make all your excuses for you, tell them all that you had an urgent telegram, very urgent business, and had to go home immediately. They’ll understand.”

Anne wanted to tell him that Mary would see through that lie in a heartbeat, but her mind was too busy trying to find a way out. He was blocking her only escape, but if she was quick about it…

She would have to risk it.

Still, she tried one more time to appeal to the man she had once known. “Byron,” she said, her voice soft. “I know that you would do anything to protect your little girl. And God knows that Bullen has done more than enough to deserve his fate. But think about what you’re saying! You can’t just leave me down here!”

“I’m so sorry, Anne, but I must.” He had the nerve to smile. “It really is for the best. You’ll see. It won’t be long, I’ll come down and--”

“Miz Morris?”

A new voice startled them both. It sounded almost familiar, but Anne couldn’t quite place it. It hardly mattered--the voice was her salvation either way.

“Miz Morris? You down here?”

Byron started to turn towards the door, and Anne seized her moment.

She leapt to her feet, ignoring the residual dizziness, and launched herself at Byron. Her right hip and shoulder hit him soundly, causing him to cry out as he lost his balance and toppled into a row of shelves. Anne wasn’t foolish enough to believe she’d truly hurt him, but she’d caught him off guard. She attempted to knee him in the groin, but missed and settled for a sharp elbow jab to the stomach. 

This time, he let out a groan of pain, but it didn’t stop him from reaching for her. Anne grabbed for the door and yanked it open, scampering back out into the main area of the kitchen, where she nearly collided with thin form in a dark dress.

“Miz Morris!”

“Hattie?” Anne asked incredulously, wondering how on earth things could keep surprising her tonight.

From behind them she heard Byron shout, and she knew they had little time before he tried to follow them. She opened her mouth to give the girl instructions, but instead it was Hattie who spoke. 

“He’s comin’. Follow me. I know a shortcut.”


	26. Chapter 26

“How is the poor wain?” Bridget Brannan asked by way of introduction, closing the door behind her.

“Bruised here and there, thanks to you,” Eliza shot back. “I thought we had agreed that Hattie would stay with her tonight? She’s made of sterner stuff than the redhead.”

“Hattie was needed elsewhere. Besides, we had no way of knowing Betty would have a seizure tonight, she was doing well enough before.”

“You should not have risked it, Bridget,” snarled Eliza. “Not tonight, of all nights, with all the people around!”

Bewildered, Mary watched the two women argue, the match all the more bizarre as it was carried out in hushed voices; she initially thought it to be so as not to disturb the sleeping child, but then recalled her hearing impairment, and was left even more disoriented by it all. “Excuse me,” she soon cut through the bickering, attempting to rise. “I should not be here. I’ll head back to my room now.”

“Don’t be foolish, Mary,” Bridget said. “Of course you should be here. This is why you were invited.”

“Was it?” Despite herself, her physical and mental discomfort, her bone-deep, all-encompassing exhaustion, Mary felt the anger rise, her outrage at being a part or, God forbid, a pawn in this whole mess. “And what is that reason, exactly? So I could listen to her story, and figure out you were a part of it from the get-go?” 

She looked to both women, and neither made any motion to deny it. She then turned to her former colleague. “Bridget, when Anne and I visited you, you asked us, “Who could want Bullen dead the most?” And I must say, I find myself quite torn, between the mother being extorted about her disabled child… and the grandmother trying to protect her girl from the same monster.”

“Good. You’ve been paying attention,” approved Bridget, lowering herself on the vanity chair with a groan. “Although I was hoping our dear Miss Hastings-now-Morris would’ve picked up on the uncanny resemblance first... She might think herself quite skilled at keeping secrets, but she never fooled me with her “very polite” acquaintance to my boy Declan.”

Despite the cascade of questions this surprising revelation spurted from her mind, Mary did now allow it to side-track her interrogation. “So is that how your fine partnership came into being, then? Maggie told you about the fine lady who saved her from the evil man at the hotel, and you then sought out Mrs. Hale to figure out why that was, exactly?”

“Quite right!” the former matron enthused. “An ally against such a bully was a rare occurrence indeed. Proper gratitude was in order, so I obtained the Hales address from the hotel clerk; I’ve rarely met a fool so easily bribed. Through our correspondence, Eliza and I soon found we could yet help each other more.”

“I needed shelter and assistance for Betty before the transfer to St.Elizabeths,” Eliza explained. “With the Squiverses and Green not knowing about her, and Byron’s event to plan and tend, we could not bring her to the hotel with us. We were afraid he might try to draw attention to her, or worse, to hurt her or take her from us. Bridget and her girls could help with that; book a separate room, care for her when I was engaged elsewhere.”

“And what about you, Bridget?” Mary pursued. “What was in it for you?”

The old woman did not even blink. “He’d harmed all the family I have left. I wanted him dead.”

“Who. Killed. Bullen.” Mary’s words were not a question as much as a demand.

Eliza met her gaze squarely. “I did.”

“You?” Mary repeated, dubious. “By yourself? In the pantry?” 

"Yes. I agreed to meet him there, late at night, where no one would be around. I had hidden a knife in the shelving and when I had him… distracted enough, I stabbed him. Ten times. He never saw it coming.”

The way she spoke, with calm, resolute confidence, was chilling, but Mary did not let it sink in and distract her. “Then how did he come out of that pantry the next morning?”

“You are the nurse, Mrs. Foster, not I. I must’ve fortunately missed enough vital organs for him to bleed out slowly in utter agony, and he managed to save enough strength to give poor Mr. Squivers the shock of his life when he came down.”

Her mind unravelling, Mary graped for any loose thread still untied by Eliza’s story. “Then how did his body vanish this morning?” 

“That, truly I do not know,” she shook her head, her expression every bit as earnest as when she had confessed to murdering a man in cold blood. “It wasn’t us: you and Mrs. Morris were with Bridget, I was away shopping with Mrs. Stringfellow, and Byron was at St.Elizabeths with Jedidiah. I suspect Bullen dead in the hotel was a bigger inconvenience for some than when he was alive. Maybe Green is to blame? I expect he’s probably being questioned on that matter as we speak.”

Unexpectedly, Eliza dropped to kneel in front of Mary, reaching to take both her hands in hers. “But never mind them, this is not what this is about. Mrs. Foster… please. You said earlier you’d do anything for your boys. Please tell me you understand why I had to do this for my girl.”

“And mine,” added Bridget, gravely. “And how many others has he hurt, and abused, that we are unaware of? Mary, you must ask yourself: who is the bigger criminal here? Us, or Bullen? Who is more deserving of justice?”

Mary did not need to ask herself; she had known the answer even before the question had been posed. In reply, she locked eyes with the ones before her, their metal now molten, and saw in them the same weariness as in those of her daughter after her crisis. The same shared by how many others, truly? The horror of it all was unspeakable.

With a squeeze to the hands beseechingly clasping hers, she gave a single, solemn nod. 


	27. Chapter 27

“This way,” Hattie urged Anne, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her into the deserted kitchen. Anne did not hesitate: her legs still heavy and unsteady, she followed the young girl as quickly as they would allow her, her mind sputtering nonsensical fireworks at the turn of events. Perhaps adding alcohol to her brain’s chloroformed state had not been the wisest of decisions…

Hattie crossed the kitchen, leading them to a tall cabinet in the corner of the room, and threw open the door. From wooden pegs hung a few aprons and liveries; Hattie shoved them aside, and a stunned Anne in their place, before struggling to fit herself into what little space remained and shutting the door.

“What the-” began the former nurse, before getting hastily shushed by the little maid. In the pitch blackness, Anne thought she saw a sliver of light in the crack of the back panelling; _that can’t be right_ , she thought to herself, but felt Hattie strain past her and the mess of her ruined bustles to reach for it. There was a click; the crack widened, and swung open.

Behind it, to Anne’s astonishment, was a passage. And in that passage, huddled against the wall with a candle in her hand, was Charlotte Diggs.

“Charlotte!” Anne cried out, stumbling into the darkness to embrace the other woman. “Thank God you’re safe! He didn’t get to you?”

“He who?” Charlotte replied in a hushed tone, stepping back to lift the candle at her friend's face, and immediately frowning in concern. “My poor Anne, what happened to you? Your forehead! You’re bleeding.”

Anne reached to her hairline; as she pulled them away, her fingers were covered in blood. “Oh, I must’ve hit my head when trying to escape,” she muttered, suddenly nauseous. “That explains the fireworks.”

“The _what_ now? And what do you mean, escape?” stressed Charlotte, but she was cut off by Hattie; the hidden door carefully closed, the young girl squeezed between them to move down the passage, commandeering the candle as she passed. “Follow me, quickly.”

With tentative steps behind her assured ones, the two women followed her carefully. Charlotte closed the march, her hand steady at the back of Anne’s shoulder, should she falter and fall.

The passage was narrow and dark, the only other lighting provided by what light managed to spill through the cracks in the woodwork. Soon, however, Charlotte noted that these gaps were too regular to be accidental, their position planned along with the hidden hallway’s inception. As they made their way slowly, they could hear the rooms’ occupants through vents they had all assumed to serve for heating; it was now clear that there had been a more nefarious purpose to their presence. Had it been this way all along, back in its hospital days? Or had this feature addition been part of the extensive remodeling work done by the Greens in the Reconstruction? Who else knew about its existence? Who lurked within its walls while people carried on their blissfully unaware lives from the assumed privacy of their rooms?

Her list of troubling questions was cut short by the passage coming to an abrupt halt. “Watch your step, there’s a ladder,” Hattie warned them, turning into a recess on the left. “I’ll go up and light the way.”

She vanished, taking the light with her. In the thick, closed darkness that soon wrapped them like a grave, the sounds were amplified; in a neighboring room, there was a knock, footsteps across creaking floorboards, the metallic screeching of a bolt being drawn, of a door swinging on its hinges.

“Leah, may I please come in?” said a male voice, rather high pitched in its urgency. 

“Leah?!” whispered Charlotte, seeking Anne’s eyes, but finding only obscurity. Despite themselves, the unknown voice and faint beam of light made them huddle closer to the vent, to better hear and regain some of their lost vision. Through the gap, they could only make out Leah’s bed and small dresser, the vent's position not allowing them a view of the door.

“You shouldn’t be here,” the maid answered. 

“I know, but we really must talk. The Pinkertons, they’ve come.”

This appeared to convince Leah. The door was closed, and she walked into view, crossing the room to sit on the edge of the bed. Her interlocutor did not follow, remaining in the room’s blindspot.

“Thank you,” he began. “For letting me in. And for not saying anything.”

“Why would I? It would put me in danger.”

“I know, I know… and I’m so sorry. I never wanted you involved in this mess. I trust you found the money I left you?” They saw her nod. “Good. There will be more, of course. Plenty. Anything you need, it’s yours, as long as this stays our secret.”

“It will.” She crossed her arms. “But I need to know what happened, exactly. Why was he in the pantry?”

At the question, Charlotte felt Anne reaching for her: quickly, she wrapped her arm around Anne’s waist, clasping her hand with her other to anchor her. In the room, there were rapid, steady footfalls crossing the short width of the room.

“It was supposed to look like natural causes. Heart failure, or stroke. Brought on by, urm... physical exertion. Of an…ah, intimate nature.”

“With a dozen stab wounds?!” 

“I panicked!” the man shot back in anguish. “I was just supposed to find the body, report it. He told me that he’d rendered him unconscious with chloroform, then injected him heavily with morphine. I expect he miscalculated the dose, didn’t use enough.” There was a heavy thud, the protest of wood; the pacing stopped. “So when I went in, and found him, and he opened his eyes and lounged at me… I panicked. I ran, I took that knife and I stabbed him, and the more he fought back, the more I stabbed. My God! The blood! So much blood! And still he would not die!”

“But he finally did, right in front of me, with my knife in his gut.” Her tone simmered with barely checked anger. “What happened to the body?”

“I had Frank take it away, get rid of it, before the others could hold their dratted autopsy. Damn these doctors and their never-ending questions! If they found the puncture mark… So it had to go. He was a preacher, it would be less suspicious for him to be digging a grave. Oh God, Frank....”

“What about him?” she asked wearily. “Did he speak to the detective?”

“No, he couldn’t… he... he’s dead. Dead, Leah! It was Jimmy. He… he stabbed him! In the back! Right here in the hotel. Tonight. Can you believe it? His own brother-in-law, for God’s sake!”

“And yours as well.”

Both Anne’s and Charlotte’s breaths caught. 

“The Pinkerton man arrested him. God… Frank is dead, Jimmy is in jail. Alice… I had to give her a sedative, she was hysterical, she was going into shock...”

There was a cry of anguish. “This place is cursed, Leah. We only wanted to sell it, be rid of it and its evil inhabitants, but it will ruin us all. Oh Lord, our children…! What will happen to them?" A hiccupped sob, followed by another, the third suddenly muffled. "I don’t know what to do... Run? Turn myself in? Turn him in? What do I do?”

“Nothing.” The word dropped like the headman’s axe on the block. “You will do nothing. At this point, anything would be beyond suspicious. Go back to your wife, your life in the city, and never speak of it again. Someone stabbed him, left him to die in the pantry, and you only found him. If they ask me, that’s what I’ll say I saw, just like I told Mrs. Diggs.”

Anne’s grasp on Charlotte’s hand tightened. At last, they saw the man slide into view: he dropped heavily to the bed next to Leah and took her hand in his. “Thank you,” he said, his voice quivering. “I owe you my life. Anything you need, is yours, forever.” 

He bowed his head, bringing her hand to his lips, and brusquely rose once more; and as hurried out, his hand moving to readjust his glasses, to wipe at his eyes underneath, Percival Squivers exited the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full credit to BroadwayBaggins for the secret passage idea!


	28. Chapter 28

The dress Henry brought her from her room was not suitable for a widow but she wore it anyway. It was the crimson one with black detailing along the bodice and back, the one Mrs. Hale had given her that Frank had seen and immediately been angry about. At that time, Emma thought perhaps she could sell it. It would fetch a good price and she needed some sort of a plan to survive. She wouldn’t ask anything else of her family and certainly nothing of her friends that had been lured to the hotel on her behalf. 

Henry had also managed to find her necessary undergarments, shrugging and saying he had sisters when she wondered how a chaplain could be so familiar with a lady’s clothing. She slipped the dressing robe off of her shoulders when he handed her the chemise and corset, their faded and oft-meded edges a pitiful sight next to the rich fabric of the crimson dress. 

When he was close, kissing him made sense. But when he left to gather her clothes or even to the other side of the room to drape the dress on a chair far from the bathwater, she began to feel untethered. The reality of what happened downstairs and what they would be joining soon in the parlour sent waves of panic over her, ones that she thought might knock her over if she didn’t focus on something else instead. She quickly slipped the chemise over her head and wrapped the corset around herself. 

“Can you tie it in the back? I can’t quite manage it on my own.” 

Henry came back to her, and she turned to show him the ties of the corset. He ran his hands down the criss-crossed laces and his breath on her neck kept the panic down. He pulled gently at first and then tugged more tightly. Emma took a sharp breath and he stopped.

“Too tight?” he asked, his lips near her ear.

“No, just sudden. I’m alright.” She leaned against him for a moment, enjoying the feel of his chest at her back, his arms around her waist, the way he dipped his head to kiss her temple.

He crossed the room again to gather the dress and then helped her put it over her head. The newness of the fabric felt heavenly. She smoothed at the skirts, found the fastenings on the bodice, rolled on her stockings, and when she had finished turned to face Henry who had retreated to the door again.

“Well?” she said, uncertain. It had been a long time since she had felt beautiful and she knew she shouldn’t care now. But Henry had once called her beautiful and to hear it again might make it feel like she hadn’t lost everything. She didn’t need to be the belle of Alexandria, but she wanted his breath to catch at the sight of her.

But it didn’t. 

He had no reaction at all except to straighten and ask “What? What do you need?”

“Nothing. Just wanted to make sure it looks alright.”

“I can’t see that far,” Henry said and she saw the way he adjusted his glasses and smiled, though she could see a frown in his eyes. “My vision is useless at distances far and near; there is a middle range I can see and get by with.” 

She stepped forward and by the way his smile changed to one of joy, the way his eyes changed to show her a hunger, she knew exactly when she reached the spot his eyes could see, and she thought perhaps she might keep the dress after all.

“Are you ready?” Henry asked, opening the door. “The hallways were mostly clear when I went to fetch your dress. I think I can take you to the parlour without any unwelcome attention.”

Emma nodded. “Yes. We have to make a plan with the others and then I hope to never see this place again.” She shivered, though it wasn’t from the bath water that had turned cold before she left, or from fear of this place of death. It was still relief that she felt, mixed with some revulsion, but relief nonetheless.

“Truly?” he asked. “You never want to come back? Where will you go?”

“I don’t know,” she answered, trying to stop the panic that was rising at his question. She tried to think about their kiss, her relief, her freedom from Frank instead. 

“Then come home with me, Emma. If you would not so mind the company of an old, half-blind fool who does not deserve you, who has no right to feel this happy right now, come with me. Marry me.”

She might have thought Henry felt sorry for her, and maybe he did, but the longing was in his voice too and he was touching her again, his hands on her waist and pulling lightly on the velvet ribbon trim. Pulling her close and speaking so earnestly and eagerly about how much he loved her and how he could give her a good home, a safe home, and would never ask anything of her again. So with the swell of something like hysteria and joy and incredulousness, she smiled and whispered “Yes.”


	29. Chapter 29

Jedidiah’s impatient knocks at the Diggs’ door had been unanswered, and so he went from one common room to the next in search of Samuel, only finding horrified party guests gathering belongings and clutching each other as they left, a few huddled in tight circles and whispering about what had unfolded. Coming up short again and again on the person he wanted to find, his unrest progressively grew until at last, he fell upon Samuel emerging from the stairs leading to the servant’s section, looking none too pleased himself.

“Ah, finally! There you are!” Jedidiah greeted him. “I was looking all over for you. I was starting to get worried.”

“Only starting?” Samuel replied, with a frown at the surrounding mess leftover from the ruined party. “I’ve been worried ever since stepping into this cursed place.”

“Right, well, I meant to speak with you about that. May I pick your brain?”

Samuel did not appear eager at the prospect. “Now’s not really a good time, Dr. Foster. I was searching for Charlotte; she left earlier, and I haven’t seen her since.”

“I just went through all the common areas, and did not see her. Maybe she is with one of your friends? Leah Gordon, perhaps?”

“No, I just checked there,” replied Samuel. “No answer.”

“Well, I understand your concern. I’ll let you get back to it right away; I did also promise Mary I’d be quick, so this will only take a minute.” 

Samuel hesitated, then nodded. Quickly, Jedidiah drew him into the parlour, which was deserted, the only witness to the interrupted festivities a table heavily loaded with pots of tea, coffee and various refined desserts, to offer guests a midnight snack and a reprieve from the dancing in the ballroom. 

With a forlorn sigh at the smell of coffee and a promise to return to it soon, he closed the sliding doors behind them. “Tell me,” he began in a hushed tone, “did you manage to learn anything today, from your interviews around town?”

Samuel crossed his arms and shrugged. “Nothing we did not already know. The man was a cheat, a bully and a scoundrel. I heard ten different versions of the same tale, but none more suspicious than the others.” He frowned and tilted his head. “However, I did see something that was.”

To Jedidiah’s intrigued expression, he continued. “When I left, early this morning, I saw Stringfellow driving off in a loaded cart, dressed like a pastor. Now, I thought that was quite suspect, even for that sour fellow… so I followed him. He ended up in the cemetery on Wilkes Street and, sure enough, took out a spade and started digging. When I became sure it was for something large, I went to the Pinkertons.”

“Samuel!” Jedidiah exclaimed. “Why would you? We agreed not to!”

“No, we agreed not to call the police to the hotel until we had done the autopsy. This was the Greens’ brother-in-law trying to dispatch the body before we’d had the chance to do it. Not the same.” To the unconvinced face before him, he sighed, and stepped in closer, his voice lower. “It could be the proof we need to protect Leah’s and the others’ innocence. Why would Stringfellow put himself through that trouble if the staff were the guilty parties?”

“Fair enough, but then, why did he return?” Jedidah countered. “And why did the Pinkertons come to the hotel so late?”

Samuel scoffed. “I expect it’s because they treated my case with the same urgency as any other Black man’s.” 

“Or maybe a preacher digging a grave was not the oddest thing to be reported this morning,” Jed offered carefully.

“I don’t know how it played out. Maybe they did go to investigate, and found something odd, but by that time, Stringfellow was gone. Or maybe they did intercept him, but he managed to convince them it was all tiptop. I don’t know, but what I do know, is that the Pinkerton man was not in the least surprised when Green mentioned Bullen tonight. He knew he was dead. So that tells me they found the body.”

Struck silent, Jedidiah stared at him, unsure of the implications of that revelation, and could only scratch his beard pensively; when he finally opened his mouth to speak, it was not a word that Samuel heard, but a click, followed by the grating of wood. Stunned, both men turned to the room’s corner, where a panel from the wall had popped out of the ornate woodwork, and was being slid across the one next to it, over he screeching protest of long-neglected hidden tracks. 

They stared in awe as a young Black girl crawled out from the newly revealed hole, followed, to their utter and final astonishment, by Anne and Charlotte. 

“Charlotte!” exclaimed Samuel, running across the room to help her up. “What on Earth is this?”

As she dusted off her dress, Charlotte shot a concerned look at Anne; her co-escapee did not bother imitating her, her own frock well past saving from her prolonged stay in the cellar. In uncharacteristic, stunned silence, she accepted Jedidiah’s offered hand and straightened up, with some effort. For a time, she did not relinquish his silent support, his hand lightly at her back, hers clasped tightly to his arm, her legs still shaky and threatening to refuse bearing her weight, her overwhelmed mind in no steadier state. 

From the comfort of her husband’s arms, Charlotte watched it all until she spoke for the both of them. “We’re… we’re not quite sure.”

As they strained to regain their bearings, Hattie had barely the time to close the secret panel once more before the parlor doors opened, revealing Matron and Mary, with Maggie in tow.

“Ah, I had an inkling we’d find you all here,” the older woman greeted them as they entered the room. “Hattie, do be a dear and run up to give Mrs. Hale a hand, will you?”

“No!” Anne suddenly cried out, breaking out of her mutism as Hattie left the room in a trot. “Hale… don’t go!”

Upon seeing his wife enter, her complexion rather paler than when he’d left her a short while ago, Jedidiah had moved to join her on the settee, but the incoherent words of his erstwhile colleague made him pause and return her his full attention. “Miss Hastings, whatever’s the matter?”

Eyes wide and wild, she shook her head. “It’s Hale, he’s the one-”

“The one what?”

The slight Southern drawl drew all eyes to the parlour door, and the woman who had spoken it then held them all hostage. It was the most incredible sight: Mrs. Stringfellow, who, mere hours ago, had watched in silent shock as her husband died, her faded white frock marred in his blood, now marched in, in a dazzling dress just as crimson, the black embroideries the perfect match to the loosened curls tumbling from her head held high to her bare shoulders. 

And just as unbelievable, she did so with her arm linked through Henry Hopkins’s, who stood as proud as a peacock, despite his complexion matching her ornate silks. 

“My goodness, Emma!” exclaimed Mary. “You look…” _Happy_ was the word she almost spoke, and bit back in time. _Exhilarated, glowing_ were also rejected in turn. “Absolutely beautiful,” she finally, underwhelmingly, settled for. 

“Isn’t she?” said Henry, to everyone’s baffled yet inexplicably pleased reaction. 

“Thank you,” Emma smiled demurely. “It was a very generous gift from Mrs. Hale. Have you seen her? I must thank her again.”

“No! You can’t!” Anne interjected again. “He’ll be there! He’s the one-”

“The one what?”

With horror, Anne watched Byron Hale stride into the room as casually as if joining them for an impromptu tea, a wooden box in his hand, a large bottle under his arm. “The one bringing the cigars and port? Yes, ma’am. Let’s save what we can from this ruined evening, shall we?”

At his genial smile, she recoiled against Jed. “No… you… the pantry…”

“Yes, I was in the pantry to fetch them, I had hidden them there,” he replied, articulating each word slowly. “Hospitals taught me that there’s nothing like a bit of blood to keep the potential thieves away. Are you quite alright, Anne?”

“Am I...am _I_ ?” she stuttered, under the deepening concerned glances of all. “ _You_ …! You were the one -”

“The one what?”

Anne’s train of thought was derailed once more, this time by the appearance of Eliza Hale. “Oh bloody hell.”

“And a good evening to you too, Mrs. Morris,” Eliza retorted, with an overly charming smile, before spotting Emma, and it becoming genuine. “Oh, Mrs. Stringfellow, how thrilled you make me to see you so! How perfectly ravishing! I see you've already made your first victim..."

"She did so a very long time ago, Mrs. Hale," Henry said, replacing his glasses to somewhat hide his deepening flush. "I was just too much of a fool to be worthy of it."

"Youth is wasted on the young," Byron said, placing the bottle on a table. "I'll see shortly about any leftover champagne to toast this welcome development, but for now, how does a 1863 Taylor tawny sound?"

"Exquisite vintage, Hale!" enthused Jedidiah. "One of the last before _Phylloxera_ ravaged the Douro valley this decade. I’m sure many of us could use a glass of such fine stuff, after tonight’s … events.”

“I think we all could, except perhaps for Mrs. Morris; it looks like she might be well ahead of us in that department,” he winked, taking her empty flask from his pocket and shaking it.

“I’m what?” Anne snapped, before hesitating. Was she? Was any of this? Chloroform, bloody pantries, secret passages… secret children. And drinking with him. From this very flask, now very empty. And now, port and cigars and champagne in the brightly lit parlour, the party rekindled as if their host had not just been arrested, as if the guest of honor had not just confessed to murder. All the guests gone, but none of the Mansion House Hospital staff. And finally Emma Green, widowed and destitute that very evening, and now the scarlet seductress of the sullen Reverend? None of it made sense. Was any of it true? Was any of it real? 

“You do look troubled, dearie,” said Bridget. “Maggie, I think Mrs. Morris would like some tea.”

Anne nearly jumped out of her skin at the sensation of a hand on her arm, but it was only Charlotte, gently guiding her to sit down in a damasked armchair. “Easy now,” she said softly, her voice calm and soothing. “You’ve had quite the ordeal. Sit down and we’ll have Samuel take a look at your head.”

“My head?” Anne asked absently. She once again put her fingers to her forehead, and once again they came away stained with blood. _Oh, yes. That._

“Looks worse than it is,” she mumbled, but Samuel was already crossing the room towards her, reaching into his pocket for a handkerchief that he used to gently dab at the cut. Jed and Mary Foster hovered nearby, although to offer advice or protection Anne did not know. She was sure her outburst had alarmed everyone, and in some dim corner of her brain, she supposed she couldn’t blame them. She flinched just a bit at Dr. Diggs’ ministrations, but did not move away. Her stomach churned unpleasantly as she tried to make the room stop spinning, as she tried to separate fantasy from reality…

She remembered stashing the letters on her person for safekeeping. That was real, she knew it was--she could feel the paper inside her corset even now. Then the world had gone dark, and she had woken up in the pantry with Byron Hale. He had administered chloroform to her, and then she had stupidly-- _so stupidly, Anne, what is the matter with you?_ \--added alcohol to it as she had listened to Byron tell his tale. A tale of love and family, yes, but also blackmail, and murder, and he had threatened to keep Anne locked in the pantry, and she’d made her escape and bumped into--

 _Charlotte._ Charlotte had not been in the pantry with Anne and Byron, but she had been in the hidden passage. She, too, had heard Percival Squivers’ frantic confession. She tried to catch Charlotte’s eyes, to see if there was any sort of recognition in their dark gaze, any inkling that she knew the same horrible secrets that Anne knew. But Charlotte remained cool and collected as ever, her eyes revealing nothing.

“Need any help, Samuel?” Byron chirped as he poured glass after glass of the light mahogany spirit. “Anything I can do, anything at all?”

“No!” Anne whispered frantically, looking at Samuel and Charlotte in turn, her eyes pleading. “Don’t let him touch me,” she hissed, her voice desperate. “Don’t let him near me. Don’t leave me alone with him, _please_.”

She didn’t want to imagine what Byron might do if he got her alone a second time. 

_“Please,_ Charlotte.”

She watched as Charlotte exchanged a look with her husband, who nodded almost imperceptibly. Charlotte took hold of Anne’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze, a promise without words to do as Anne asked. Anne felt a hand on her shoulder and did not have to turn around to know that Mary was there as well.

“I...I think I’ve got it well in hand,” Samuel answered casually. “It’s not a deep cut. She may not even need stitches.”

“How in the world did you get such a laceration anyway, Anne?” Jedidiah asked, still trying to piece everything together. Charlotte and Mary both shot him identical harsh looks, but he did not notice. “And how were you able to--”

Jedidiah’s question was cut off by the arrival of Maggie, now holding a steaming mug in both hands. “Tea’s ready,” she said softly, offering the mug to Anne.

Anne reached out a hand to take it, but her eyes were not on the cup but rather on the child in front of her. She had not gotten a very good look at Bridget Brannan’s house--the lights had been dim at first and the girl hadn’t been in the room long enough for Anne to truly study her face, and Anne’s mind had been on more pressing matters. But now, in the light of the parlor, with the girl standing mere feet in front of her, Anne stared.

And stared.

She stared at the thin frame, the set of the jaw that looked so familiar to her. Stared at wild red curls and endless freckles, and the eyes that were staring right back into hers…

No. No. It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t…

“Thank you, Maggie, for the tea,” Mary said kindly, for Anne had forgotten what words were. The teacup shook in her hands.

It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be. That child had…

Bridget Brannan caught Anne’s eye before she spoke, her voice filled with pride. “Aye, she’s a good one, is Declan’s girl.”

Anne swore her heart stopped beating.

“No,” she croaked, so quietly she wasn’t even sure if Samuel and Charlotte could hear her. “It can’t be…”

The baby had been taken away. She had scarcely gotten a good look at it. She had never been told what had happened after the birth...she had assumed it had…

But here the proof was standing right in front of her.

“Maggie,” she whispered.

It was too much. Byron’s revelations and this new one, the gin and the chloroform and the stress of this entire visit. The room spun wildly around Anne, a whirlwind that she could not escape from, and as the darkness took her, she met it gladly as she slumped out of her chair and crumpled to the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1863 was actually a great vintage for port, this isn't just very à propos creative licence. You can still buy bottles of the Taylor Fladgate Single Harvest 1863, if you have waaaaay too much cash to burn on booze.


	30. Chapter 30

“Anne!” Mary cried out the moment her friend hit the ground. She lurched forward, ignoring the pain in her back and her leg that was now singing relentlessly, but Charlotte was already there. Her quick fingers felt for a pulse, and when she found it she let out a sigh of relief. “She’s fainted,” she explained. “She’s had a shock--”

“She’s had a series of shocks, by the look of things,” Jed muttered to his wife. “Did you see her eyes, the way her pupils were dilated? I’d wager she has a great deal more than drink tonight.”

“You think someone drugged her?” Mary asked as quietly as she could.

“After everything that’s happened tonight, it wouldn’t surprise me in the least. The question is who, and for what purpose, and are the rest of us in any danger?” 

Jed cast a look around the room and sighed. “We should get her upstairs.”

“I’ll do it!” Byron gallantly volunteered, surging forward even as Eliza laid a hand on his arm to stop him. But Samuel was already lifting Anne easily into his arms--his years carrying around patients, as well as two growing, active children, made the task easy even with Anne’s voluminous skirts and bustles.

“Don’t trouble yourself, Doctor Hale. I’ve got her.”

“Are you sure? Because I could--”

“ _Quite_ sure.” Samuel’s voice was firm, but still with an air of friendliness as he swept Anne out of the room. “Do not let Doctor Hale anywhere near her,” he murmured to Jed and Henry on his way out.

Charlotte set Anne’s abandoned teacup on a side table and quickly got to her feet. “I’m going to help him get her settled,” she said to no one in particular before trailing after her husband.

Byron slumped into a chair, pursing his lips. “Some party this turned out to be.”

Out in the hallway, Charlotte quickly caught up to her husband despite his long strides. “Samuel,” she whispered urgently. “There’s something you need to know…”

* * *

Once Charlotte and Samuel had safely deposited Anne upstairs in her bed--and paid a porter to stand guard outside her door, just in case--they returned to the parlor, finding the group still assembled. Emma and Henry sat beside each other, hands entwined, and Jed was pacing back and forth, though he stopped his aimless trek when the Diggses entered the room. 

“Everything all right?”

“She’ll be fine,” Samuel assured them. “One of us can go check on her in a little while.” He stifled a yawn, then looked sheepish. “Sorry. It’s been...a long night.”

“That is, perhaps, a massive understatement,” Jed said, a vain attempt at a joke. “And I’m afraid until we have some answers, none of us except Anne will be getting any sleep.”

“Oh, there’s no real point in speculation,” Byron began. “Why don’t we just--”

“Samuel and I were talking earlier, before all the….excitement began,” Jed said carefully. “Why don’t you tell them all what you told me.”

As Samuel related the same events he had shared with Jedidiah earlier, an uneasy silence settled on the room. Emma bit her lip, looking troubled, and squeezed Henry’s hand so tightly her knuckles went white. “That’s… not good.”

“Why not?" asked Bridget. "A notable swindler and bully, dead. The suspicious stranger who buried him, also dead. Bullen was a thorn in the side of the police as well; they suspected him of at least a dozen crimes in the city but could never catch him red-handed. I wager nobody in that office shed a tear about him turning up bloated and gutted in an unmarked grave; I’ll even double-down and say they filled the hole back up just as soon as they recognized him.”

“And that’s...it?" said Henry, visibly uncomfortable. "Does anyone truly believe the police would leave it at that? Two disreputable men, dead. _Quid pro quo._ A life for a life.”

“Well, what else could it be? Any other suspect?” Samuel asked, looking to each face in turn, until falling upon Mary’s. “Mrs. Foster? What has your fine mind surmised from this whole affair?”

Under the eyes of all, two grey ones especially intent on piercing the shield of her mind, Mary sat, steadfast, and eventually shrugged. “I…. think you have the right of it, Dr. Diggs. What else could it be? Mrs. Stringfel-”

“Emma. Please. All of you. Call me Emma. I cannot bear….” 

“Of course. Emma, do you believe it? Would it have been in… your husband’s character?”

“His character…" she scoffed, and shook her head, her hand tight in Henry’s. “Let’s just remember that he did try to kill the man twice, back in our hospital days.” 

_“Jamais deux sans trois,_ ” said Jedidiah in answer.

“Oh dear… truly, Jed, has your accent not improved at all, after all this time?” Eliza said, drawing a scowl from her former husband, which deepened even further when he caught his wife straining to keep her amused smile contained. 

“All commentary on my French aside, has anyone else anything else to say?" He took a deep pull on his cigar, shot a circular glance around the room. "Any other information to share, before we agree to call this ghastly case closed, and move on with our lives?”

“Well, I for one cannot wait for that,” said Charlotte, from over her glass. “No disrespect meant to any of you, but we came to offer our congratulations to Dr. Hale on his big event, and now that that’s done, we’ll be on our way.”

“Thank you for coming, both of you,” Hale said, extending his hand to firmly shake hers and Samuel. “I was thrilled when you accepted my invitation, my good man. I’m so sorry for the turn of events.”

“Well, it’s not exactly your fault, is it? Unless you had that planned all along?” For an instant, Hale did not move, until Samuel smirked, and he broke out in booming, relieved laughter.

"Always the jester, Dr. Diggs! A big party to cover a big murder! That would be something, wouldn’t it? What a splendid farce!” Progressively, his good humor contaminated every one.

“Are you heading back tomorrow, then?” asked Mary, with a point of regret.

“No, we’ll remain in town a few days more, but not here. This hotel might be nice, and probably much safer now that this dreadful affair is sorted, but we’d rather stay with the Johnsons.” Samuel glanced at his wife. “We’ll come back to check on Anne, of course.”

“The Johnsons? Belinda and George Johnson?” Emma asked, her voice catching in the process.

“The one and only,” Charlotte replied, watching as the younger woman became more flustered than when her husband had been judged a murderer by all her former friends. “Belinda spoke of you, when we first arrived. I’m sure she would be glad to see you again, should you like to come along.”

“I would like that very much,” Emma said quietly. “But just a quick call in the morning, I don’t want to impose on them. I expect I’ll also have to go see my mother.. I do not know if she’s heard of Jimmy’s arrest yet.”

“I’d be happy to accompany you if you like,” Mary offered kindly. “If you...think you want the company.”

Emma gave her a grateful smile, but shook her head. “Thank you for the offer, but I think this is something I have to do on my own. She...she needs to hear it from me.”

“I understand.”

“All’s well that ends well, then?” asked Bridget Brannan, draining her glass. “Then I suggest we all go and salvage whatever precious hours are left of this night.”

“A fine idea, Matron,” Jed agreed, offering Mary his arm. “Let us adjourn until tomorrow, then.”

* * *

Upstairs in her room, oblivious to the goings-on in the parlor, Anne Hastings Morris slept. She dreamt of a tiny room at a hospital miles outside of Alexandria, where she would hopefully stir up less suspicion. She dreamed of pain, and blood, and the harsh voice of the midwife in her ear telling her to _push, again, girl, that’s the way_ . She dreamed of a baby, tiny and frail, being lifted away from her, of wondering why she could hear no cries, of her _“Please, just let me see her,”_ going ignored and unanswered…

When Anne woke, the pain in her head had subsided to a dull ache. The first rays of dawn were just beginning to creep through the curtains, and as she lay in the bed, blinking as the world came into focus, the events of the night before came rushing back to her.

She sat up, only to find that she was not alone.

“Ah, there you are. I was wondering when you were going to be joining us again.”

Bridget Brannan sat in a chair on the other side of the room, looking at Anne expectantly. “How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been dragged backwards by a horse,” Anne said truthfully.

Bridget let out a throaty chuckle. “You just missed Mrs. Diggs,” she said by way of conversation. “She stepped out to get something to eat. Mrs. Foster took her turn keeping an eye on you before her. They both said they wanted to be close by in case you needed something, but something tells me that they were actually standing guard for a much more noble purpose.” She smiled. “To keep you safe, I reckon.”

Anne sat up, wincing. Her eyes widened and her hand flew to her bodice, but her gown was gone, replaced by one of her nightgowns. “The letters…!”

“Safe,” was all Bridget said. She nodded at the table by the bed, and Anne’s heart leapt into her throat. She reached for the drawer and yanked it open, sighing with relief when it revealed the papers she had smuggled out from under Byron’s nose.

“And I imagine you’ll be wantin’ to keep them that way,” Bridget mused. “You know, I’ve always thought that sometimes, you need to do something a little bad in order to do something good.” She glanced up at the sound of footsteps in the hall. “I imagine that’ll be Charlotte coming back. You two probably have a great deal to talk about.”

She stood up, and Anne couldn’t help but notice how much more slowly her friend seemed to move, as if the years had all caught up with her in a single night. “Bridget!” she cried out before she could stop herself.

“Yes, dearie?”

She couldn’t look at her. “The girl. Your girl. Maggie. How--” 

She swallowed past the lump that had suddenly formed in her throat. “How old is she?”

“Ah, yes. Fifteen next month.”

“What? Fifteen? You’re certain?”

Fifteen...fifteen wasn’t right. Bridget had to be mistaken.

“Aye, looks younger, doesn’t she? I tell you, her ma must’ve been skinny as a maypole. But Declan was tall, so I’m sure she will be too, eventually. Now that she’s getting good regular meals and all.”

Bridget smiled fondly, no longer looking at Anne but looking back into the past. “He was a good boy, my Declan. You know that--you saw it. None of the girls could ever resist him, it seems. He met Maggie’s ma a few years before the war, but it wasn’t meant to be. She never told him anything about Maggie, I’m sure of it--if he’d known, he would have--”

“He would have stayed,” Anne finished for her, her voice dull.

“Now, I never knew anything about the girl either until just a few months ago. Her ma died in January, you see, and Maggie, clever girl, was able to track me down. I tell you, when I opened that door to see the very spittin’ image of my boy staring back at me…”

_I know what you mean._

She tried to smile. “I’m glad you found each other.”

She could feel Bridget’s keen gaze on her. Anne kept her eyes focused on her hands, folded tightly together against the bedclothes. “How old would yours have been, then?” she asked.

Somehow, she knew without Anne having to explain, and for that Anne was grateful. “Twelve,” she said, her voice thick. “She would have been twelve.”

She didn’t see Bridget approach the bed, but she felt when Bridget’s arms wrapped tight around her. “I’m sorry, dearie,” she said softly. “I’m so terribly sorry.” 

No more words were spoken on the subject. None needed to be.

Some time later, when the tears that Anne had let slip had dried, Bridget squeezed her hands gently. “I know you have some things to think about, dearie,” she said with a meaningful nod towards the bedside table where Byron’s letters lay hidden. “And I trust you’ll make the right decision, whatever that may be.”

“I hope you’re right.”

Bridget turned to go, but paused with her hand on the doorknob. “You know, I think this place feels...lighter,” she said, her voice even. “Like it’s finally at peace.” She winked. “Might be time to breathe a bit of new life into it, if you know what I mean.”

“Thank you, Bridget.”

No sooner did Bridget leave the room than Charlotte appeared, Mary behind her, and Anne found herself being fussed over in a way that was both endearing and rather mortifying. She sipped some tea and managed to eat a piece of cornbread Charlotte had brought along for her. 

“Anne,” Charlotte said quietly. “I’m not sure how much you remember…”

“Remember of what?” Anne asked, even though she knew perfectly well what Charlotte was talking about.

“When Hattie took us into that passage I found. The shortcut into the parlor, do you remember? We...we overheard something…” Charlotte’s voice trailed off, her eyes searching Anne’s, and Anne knew that she was worried for her friend. Knew the confession that Percival Squivers had made to Leah Gordon, and how dangerous it could be for her if word ever got out of the truth.

“I remember…” Anne said slowly, as if searching for the words. “I remember hearing your voice, and Hattie’s too. I remember a hallway, I think. Everything after that, Charlotte, is a bloody blur. I’m sorry.”

Charlotte relaxed almost imperceptibly. The lie stung, just a little bit, but Anne told herself it was for the good of everyone.

It certainly wasn’t the first such lie she had ever told, after all. Nor would it be the last.

“Are you sure?” Mary asked softly, and as her brown eyes met Anne’s, Anne knew that she knew too. How, and how much, she did not know. Perhaps she never would. But Mary knew something of what Anne knew, and she knew that both would keep it to themselves.

“I’m sure. Though what that secret passage is doing in the damn hotel, I have no idea--”

“I’m afraid I might have an explanation for that.”

Emma Stringfellow stood in the doorway, looking unsure, as if she might not be welcomed inside the room. “I just came to make sure you were all right. You gave us quite a scare last night, Mrs. Morris.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, I’m about as tired of all this bloody formality as I can be,” Anne huffed, motioning for her to come in. “Call me Anne, once and for all, please.”

Emma smiled as she entered. “Only if you promise not to call me Mrs. Stringfellow any longer.”

“It’s a deal.”

“Soon to be Mrs. Hopkins, anyhow,” Charlotte added with a sly smile.

Anne’s mouth dropped open. “He did it? He finally plucked up the courage and did it?”

Emma looked more radiant than Anne had ever seen her. “He did.”

“Well, I can see I missed a great deal more than I thought! You must tell me the story!”

“But perhaps explain the secret passage first,” Mary suggested, gently sinking down onto the bed beside Anne. Her leg must have been paining her, Anne deduced. “All the years we were here during the war, and no one ever discovered it?”

“My father always said that the hotel was like any great lady--full of secrets,” Emma explained. “It was built with several such passages, so that the servants--” She broke off and cast a frightened look at Charlotte.

“Slaves,” Charlotte corrected, but not unkindly.

“--Could pass through the hotel mostly unnoticed, if need be. Part of the illusion.” Emma couldn’t hide the contempt and disappointment on her face. “My father abandoned the practice before the war began, but…”

She sighed and looked down, her head bowed. “The pain and death this place has been through...even before the war,” she said softly. “The things my family has done…”

“Bridget Brannan said something interesting to me,” Anne interrupted gently. “She said...that this place could do with a fresh start. And I have to say I agree with her. We cannot change what happened in the past--any of us,” she added, looking at each of the women before her in turn. Women that she admired and trusted, women that she knew held secrets close to her heart just as she held hers.

“But we can do everything we can to ensure a better future. For Mansion House, for you, Emma, for--for everyone.”

_For Betty Hale._

“And so, my dear Emma soon-to-be-Hopkins, I have a business proposition for you, if you’ll hear me out.”

* * *

“You wanted to see us, Anne?” 

Anne turned at the sound of Byron’s voice, smoothing her hands over her skirt. She was dressed for battle in her best dress, and smiled coolly at the Hales as they entered her room. Eliza was as collected as ever, but Anne could tell by the look in Byron’s eye that he was nervous.

Perhaps he should be.

“Yes, come in. I really have to commend the both of you, you know. It really was a perfect plan. Or would have been, if not for a few little hitches here and there. Percival Squivers, bad luck, really.”

“I...I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, Byron, don’t play dumb,” Eliza snapped. “It’s an insult to all three of us.”

“Your lovely wife is right, I’m afraid. And as for the rest of it--well, you certainly couldn’t have planned on Jimmy Green killing his brother-in-law the way he did. That did muddle things, didn’t it? Not your fault, certainly. No one could have predicted that. But you did make one rather large mistake, I’m afraid, and you really have no one to blame but yourself, Byron.”

“What--what do you mean?” His face had paled.

“You never were good at cleaning up after yourself, were you? Luckily, any nurse worth her salt can do that, and I...am a very good nurse.”

With a flourish, Anne opened the drawer to the bedside table and brandished the letters. Byron’s good eye widened as he recognized them, and he lunged for them, intending to snatch the papers from Anne’s hand. She pulled them away.

“No! I--I burned them--”

“Not all of them, I’m afraid. Now, without the complete set, I’m afraid it’s not the _full_ narrative, but it paints a rather vivid picture nonetheless. Now, I don’t _want_ to have to use these, I really don’t. And I don’t want to do anything that could jeopardize the fresh start that the three of you have planned. I truly don’t. Luckily, I think there’s a way that we can help each other.”

“What do you want, Anne?” Byron asked through gritted teeth.

“I don’t want anything from you. I’m going to explain what’s going on, and then you’re going to help me, because it’s the right thing to do.” She looked him in the eye, then Eliza. “Because, in spite of everything--God help me --you are _good_ parents, who love your daughter and want what’s best for her. And I think I have an idea that could give her just that.”

“What could you possibly--”

“Let her speak, Byron!”

“I’ve just finished meeting with Emma, who’s gone on to pay a visit to her mother. We’ve worked out a deal and she’s agreed--as the eldest, un-imprisoned, surviving Green child, and lacking any wretched husband to stop her from doing what she wishes with property that is rightfully hers--to sell me this hotel at what we both believe to be a generous, yet reasonable, price for both of us.”

“What does that have to do with us? Why should we care what you do with your millions?”

Anne ignored the jab--it was hardly accurate, anyway. “You know, my husband’s sister was ill most of her life. Not like Betty, not exactly, but similar in some ways. It kept her from finishing her education, something that she dearly wanted to do. I’ve often wondered, if she’d had the opportunity, if a place existed where she could have gone to school without worrying about her health, what would have happened. It is my intention to start such a school right here. A school for girls--maybe boys too, eventually, who knows. A place for children to learn and grow and play, one where all could be welcome. Perhaps, even an alternative to the asylum for those like Betty.”

She looked only to Eliza now. “She could be our first pupil. It would take a while to get started, of course, to prepare the rooms and hire the proper teachers--Charlotte can help with that--but I was wondering, Eliza, if you would like to be our very first patron.”

Byron snorted. “You can’t possibly be serious.”

“I assure you I can. I am. It will be a massive undertaking. My fortune can only take me so far. A small monthly contribution--call it tuition for Betty if you like--would go a long way. You’d be able to visit her anytime you like. She wouldn’t be a prisoner, she wouldn’t be a patient. She’d just be a girl.”

“She’s talking about trading one blackmailer for another!” Byron roared. “Eliza, you cannot possibly be considering this!”

“I’ve given you no ultimatum. I’ve simply laid my cards on the table. You’re free to say no, of course. And I’m free to go to the authorities if I wish. But I do wish you’d say yes.” She looked around the room. “My husband used to call Mansion House a dear old place. It took me a long time to understand why. It wasn’t the building, but the people. It hasn’t been a dear old place for quite some time. But I believe it could be again. And I can’t do it alone. What do you say, Mrs. Hale?”

Eliza looked to her husband, having a conversation without words. Finally, Byron seemed to deflate, and Eliza turned to Anne.

“Tell me more about this school.”

Anne smiled widely.

“Why don’t the two of you sit down?”


	31. Epilogue

“Thank you, Belinda. For so much. Not just today,” Emma said from the doorway. Belinda hadn’t invited her in and Emma didn’t want to assume. She’d already assumed too much about Belinda’s desires, or discounted them completely. “I’m going to see Mother and explain about Jimmy. And Frank.”

Belinda looked to Emma’s arm looped through Henry’s, to the pale circle of white around her ring finger where a wedding ring had been. “Would you like me to go with you?”

“No, Belinda. I won’t ask that of you. I just wanted to tell you all of that myself before you hear it gossiped about.” 

“Well,” said Belinda, a smile turning one corner of her mouth. “I think I’d like to see her take the news.”

“Even if she asks you for laudanum?” Emma asked, matching her smile. It was a sad thing to tell her mother that her brother was arrested, her husband dead, her sister currently in hysterics that Percival was trying to soothe with one arm while signing away the family hotel to Mrs. Morris with the other. It was sad. But the lightness and laughter kept rising in her chest and she couldn’t stop smiling over the freedom she felt and the relief that she would be leaving soon.

“I can tell her where to find it if she does,” said Belinda, reaching to the peg by the door for a shawl.

***

“It’s a fair price,” Anne said, though she knew it was a bargain. She also knew how desperate they were to sell and she knew what being desperate felt like, so she didn’t push further. Emma, at least, deserved the money and Anne was eager to send it to her. Anne had more money than she could spend and Charlotte’s idea for a school was the first thing to excite her about the future since Frederick’s death. They could scrub the blood out of the walls, purge the secrets from each closet. The Greens had done it once before. Anne was determined she and Leah and the Diggs would do it even better. Bridget too, if she could persuade her. 

Percival nodded and might have shaken her hand, but his arms were currently around his wife who was crying. Anne couldn’t tell if Alice was genuinely grief-stricken and whether it was for the loss of property or the loss of life, and she didn’t much care to find out. She’d had her fill of mysteries. 

***

They went to Boston before Williamstown and Mary took her shopping. In Boston, it was easy to find ready-to-wear, though Mary took her to a favorite tailor and dressmaker and insisted on some pieces made to Emma’s own measurements. They moved slowly through town, at Mary’s normal pace and Emma’s preferred one for seeing a new city. It wasn’t so different from Alexandria, not really, not until people spoke to her or their eyebrows shot up at her accent. The kid gloves were to guard against the cold more than the sun, and she’d never had nor needed a sealskin toque or fur muff. But the Yankees weren’t the fearsome lot her mother had promised they would be, practically drowning out the vows she and Henry made to one another in the Green family drawing room with a subdued Dr. Hale doing the honors. 

After a wool cape and fur-trimmed pelisse that Emma bought with Henry’s money ( _our money_ he had said, pressing it into her hands that morning as he kissed her forehead), Mary bought her a silk Paisley shawl with fringe, calling it a wedding present.

“If I was really spoiling you it would be Kashmir. These are going out of fashion now what with everyone’s desperation to show off their bustles. But I find them the best way to keep warm at home, at least when Jed’s not there.” Mary pulled the shawl around Emma and fiddled with the fringe. “I hope you’ll be happy here. I know Henry wishes it too. But I know what it is to lose a husband.”

Emma put her hands in Mary’s and smiled at her friend. “I am happy. Or, I will be. I’m not sure what I am now, but it’s better than I was.”

***

He married her in Virginia but, all he had offered since then was a chaste kiss or an arm for hers to loop through as they navigated trains and carriages. Their overnight at the Foster’s home was a late night of reminiscences by the fire, mulled wine, and the steady interruptions of Johnny and Daniel and then even Elias coming to complain about the loud ruckus downstairs. When Mary finally shooed both the boys and the adults to bed with a meaningful “They’re newlyweds after all, Jed,” Emma and Henry had both hesitated when he shut the door behind them. 

“You’re weary from the travel; I’ll let you - “

“Henry,” Emma said, her hands already reaching for the buttons of his waistcoat. “Don’t make me wait any longer. Don’t you think we’ve waited long enough?”

Henry closed his eyes and reached for her cheek, remembering his first touch there years ago. When he had wiped away a tear and wished he could kiss her. 

“Is it that you don’t want me this way? That I’m - “

“No, Emma not that.” He opened his eyes and stepped back so he could see her clearly, reaching for her hands and squeezing. “I want you very much. So much I hardly know how to start.”

“Then let me show you, Henry,” Emma said, pushing on him gently until they were at the bed and he sat down heavily, off balance and out of breath. She nudged his knees open with her own and stood between them, her hands on his shoulders and his at her waist, leaning in to kiss him behind the ear and to whisper “I am my beloved’s and he is mine.”

***

Henry and Emma continued west to Williamstown, waving from the carriage that took them from the Foster home and promising to return soon for a visit and to write even sooner. One week later the Foster boys welcomed their much desired puppy, and one year later, a rather less desired sister. Jed’s apprehension turned to delight when Mary reached for her daughter with eager arms, bringing her to her breast and leaning back into the pillows with a laugh. “There’s two of us now. Three if you count the dog. We’ll be evenly matched soon, Mr. Foster.”

Jed washed his hands in the basin and looked at the brightness in her cheeks and the sweat on her brow, walking to her to check for fever. He kissed her forehead and then the baby’s. “Oh, I’m very happily outmatched already.”

***

Frank didn’t haunt her. But sometimes her own inaction did. Her complicity. 

The cold of Williamstown was nothing to the bone-chilling terror of life in Franklin County, the shiver of fear she felt as she heard horses whinny in the dark and hooves pound the dirt as Frank and his most loyal congregants rode off to wreak whatever hateful havoc they could. 

In Williamstown, Henry knew how to stoke the fire just so, and soon afterwards the Rumford fireplace in the house was replaced by a coal furnace, the intricate ironwork and decorative finials as fancy as any etched crystal her mother had been proud to show.

She did not long for her life in Virginia and it took a while before Henry’s encouragement to write letters to her mother and sister and Belinda yielded missives sent south. She hardly wrote to Mary because they visited so often - heading east for Boston meetings of the American Woman Suffrage Association with Mary and her friend Josephine Bhaer and then later to meet baby Penelope Foster.

Emma taught Sunday School and led sewing circles and an auxiliary chapter of the AWSA. She waved to Henry’s students as they walked by their house and he brought her flowers that Alice might have called weeds but Emma would not.

When Henry’s hands were on her, she never thought of Frank. The way he loosened her corset and spread his hands over her stomach and chest, pulling her to him before it was dark and he could see her best, it was uniquely Henry. He had started hesitant and unsure, but she showed him with her sighs and fingers spread across his shoulders and legs wrapped around his middle that she wanted this too, so much.

In the end, all of her new fitted dresses and smartly tailored coats that Mary helped her buy were useless by her second winter as it became clear the Reverend and Mrs. Hopkins would welcome a baby with the spring.

***

The first students at The Lou Morris School knew there were ghosts, and they knew Ms. Leah Gordon took care of them. They knew there had been a war and they knew about loss. In their beds, under clean cotton sheets, they whispered about the cries they heard in the night, the thuds and thumps and rhythmic banging. Laughter too, though only when patrons Doctor and Mrs. Hale came on their weekly tours and Mrs. Diggs walked them to an upstairs room. The children decided the ghosts liked ornate bustles and lacy flounces like Mrs. Hale wore and drew elaborate flourishes on the pictures they drew of the spirits they imagined. 

But after a few years, no one spoke of ghosts, even though Ms. Gordon still sang at night to calm them and Jack and Harriet had been there the whole time and remembered. The children knew people came in different colors; the grown-ups said black and white, but to them, they were all brown and beige, with a few pink, with freckles all over their faces, like Miss Brannan. They also knew people had different skills; some spoke with words, others with their hands, and some, not at all. Some could run and jump over the fence they weren’t supposed to jump over, earning a scowl from Old Mrs. Green who seemed to always walk by when they were at play in the yard. Some could walk with some help, and others had special chairs with wheels that needed to be pushed - slowly! the teachers always said, Mrs. Morris most of all, her eyes all seeing, her tone sharp but never mean.

When the cries in the night and the thumps and thuds sounded, it wasn’t with fear that the children strained to listen. They stilled in their beds to listen for Ms. Gordon’s voice floating down the halls.

_Nobody knows the trouble I've seen_

_Nobody knows but Jesus_

_Nobody knows the trouble I've seen_

_Glory, Hallelujah_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sagiow gets all the credit for the school not being as depressing as it could have been. Thanks for the input on this chapter! And thanks to all of our authors for their work on this series: Middlemarch for the idea to begin with, her great chapters, and her great deleted scenes and the idea of deleted scenes at all, MercuryGray for the the first chapter and many other great ones, Tortoiseshells for her great chapters and essay comments, BroadwayBaggins and Sagiow for their great chapters - especially the ones in the homestretch here when we were flagging a bit. And thank you to TheSpasticFantastic who is the best beta ever.
> 
> And thank you faithful readers for stayed with us as we told this story! We are grateful for you!

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